A Chance To Be Better
by Slipstream77
Summary: Neal's sentence is almost up. Endings are hard, as Neal and Peter are finding out. But maybe it's not an ending. Maybe it's a beginning. Or can it be both?
1. The Fastest Way You Can

**A Chance To Be Better**

"Freedom is nothing but a chance to be better."

—Albert Camus

SUMMARY: Neal's sentence is almost up. Endings are hard, as Neal and Peter are finding out. But maybe it's not an ending. Maybe it's a beginning.

Or can it be both?

Spoilers for everything up through the end of Season 5.

* * *

><p>Chapter One - The Fastest Way You Can<p>

…..

"_I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. _Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour . . . ." _  
><em>― Beryl Markham, _West with the Night _

* * *

><p>Peter held the phone in his hand, staring at it. After a moment, he brought up the contact list and scrolled through to the one he was looking for. He contemplated the name, even brought his finger up to hover over it.<p>

Then he stopped.

_You said you wouldn't do this, _a little voice in his mind reminded.

_Don't be ridiculous, _another part of his brain shot back. _What would be the harm?_

He stood there mulling it over until the phone's screen dimmed.

Peter put the phone back in his pocket.

….

_(earlier)_

The thing was, he'd promised himself that he would give Neal his space. The space, the time he needed to figure out what came next, the path he'd take. A path that Peter freely admitted he hoped would lead back to New York.

Well, he'd freely admitted that to himself. Not to Neal. Not in so many words, anyway.

Peter knew he couldn't push it. The decision was Neal's. His consultant's sentence would soon be over, the anklet removed for good. He was free to roam the world, to do whatever he wanted. He wouldn't be tethered to an FBI desk anymore. And Neal had made it very clear that, when the anklet came off, he was going to take maximum advantage of that fact.

But to Peter, it seemed so obvious that Neal belonged right here. Staying in New York—a city he clearly loved—in an apartment most city dwellers would kill for, surrounded by people who cared about him, and doing a job that he was almost ridiculously good at, especially considering he'd had no formal training whatsoever. It seemed, to Peter, an ideal situation for someone in Neal's position.

But, of course, Neal wasn't Peter. While it might be true that he'd had some influence over Neal during the past four years, Neal's perspective and priorities were his own. It was still hard, sometimes, for Peter to accept that his CI didn't see things the way he did—that what Peter saw as comfortable security might be, for Neal, dreary, mind-numbing drudgery. As the end of Neal's sentence neared, Peter knew he had to accept that reality.

* * *

><p>"So . . . " Diana drawled. "Caffrey."<p>

With a sigh, Peter looked up from pouring his coffee. "Yes. Caffrey." The morning case update meeting had just ended but Neal was still in the conference room, half-perched on the table and expounding to a couple of probies—on what topic, Peter thought it better not to ask. There was a lot of laughing and gesturing going on. As always in these cases, Peter reminded himself that there was a lot the probies could learn from Neal.

He ignored the fact that some of what they could learn might not be ideal from the FBI's perspective and brought his attention back to Diana.

"Yes, you know. Dark hair, blue eyes, charming smile—"

"_Devious_ smile," he corrected, adding a dollop of cream.

That made Diana actually laugh out loud; Peter wasn't sure why. "Point taken." She eyed Peter for a moment and her expression grew serious. "He seemed to . . . get his back up a little bit in there—did you notice?"

She was referring, Peter knew, to an off-handed comment he'd made during the meeting. They'd been discussing a major theft that had happened at a DC art museum the day before—outside of their jurisdiction but definitely not outside of the scope of their interest. Neal had shared some unique insights about how one might evade the particular security system in question, hypothetically, of course, which led to what was, for Peter, a pretty standard joke, this time about museums having to increase their security in a few weeks once Neal's anklet was off.

Peter had noticed, absently, that Neal didn't join in the laughter—he'd glanced down with a somewhat pained smile on his face—but Peter hadn't thought much of it, or what it might mean. Like anyone else, Neal could be moody at times and he'd been a bit quieter lately than usual. Peter had chalked Neal's reaction up to nothing more than that.

"Neal's no shrinking violet," he pointed out. "I'm sure you've noticed that he's not exactly shy about taking credit for his past exploits."

"Hard to miss," Diana agreed. "But you weren't talking about his past exploits. You were talking about his _future_ exploits. Well, potential future exploits."

That brought him up short. She was right, he could see that immediately, but he hadn't thought of it that way. "Does it matter?"

She gave him a look that plainly said it did. "Peter, how do you think Neal's changed since you slapped that anklet on him?"

Peter opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. He felt like he was back in college, having to answer an essay question that seemed simple on the surface, but got more complex the more you thought about it. He took so long, in fact, that Diana chuckled and took pity on him. "Let's try this. How good of a criminal do you think Neal is?"

That was a much easier question, and he answered it quickly. "The best I've ever seen. The smartest."

"Smarter than you?"

"No," he said, just as rapidly. Automatically, he thought back to that conversation between Rachel and Neal in the interrogation room: _Do you think you're smarter than your old friend, Peter Burke? _And Neal, forced to answer because they needed information from her, had answered, _Yes, and he thinks he smarter than me. Which has led to years of debate. _"I'm the guy who caught him," Peter added; an obvious point, but by this time it was reflex for him to say it. He was now getting more curious about the point of this discussion. Diana wasn't one for hashing out the obvious, or for wasting time asking questions she already knew the answer to.

"You're also the guy who chased him for four years while Neal was a suspect in multiple cases. How many times in there _didn't _you catch him?"

Plenty, it was true, but that didn't mean his pride didn't rebel a bit to hear it. Neal had eluded him and all law enforcement for a hell of a long time once he was on their radar. And not by lying low—he'd been doing some pretty brazen stuff during that time, including signature flourishes like sending champagne to surveillance vans. The kind of thing guaranteed to drive an FBI agent crazy. In fact, knowing Neal, Peter thought, it had been _calculated _to drive him crazy.

Some of his emotion at having his failure pointed out must have showed on his face, because Diana smiled and punched his arm affectionately. "No offense, boss. Hey, let's go upstairs."

Peter was now more curious than ever. They made their way up to his office, meeting Neal on his way out of the conference room, heading back down to his desk. Neal flashed his most winning smile at them.

"Remember, your report, Neal," Peter called out as they passed. They'd just wrapped up a money laundering case; Neal had done most of the work, which meant his reward was doing the case summary. "By the end of the day."

"By the end of the day," Neal repeated brightly. "Of course."

"Written by you. Not one of the probies."

Neal's smile dimmed. His shoulders slumped a bit, and his eyes flicked back in the direction of the conference room where the probies were on their way out. Peter would have bet a hundred dollars that Neal had spent his time after the meeting talking one of the younger agents into writing the damn report. "If you insist."

"I do," Peter told him.

Neal sighed, but didn't argue, just went on down the stairs. Peter smiled to himself and went into his office. Diana sat down across from him.

"Now," she said briskly, setting her coffee down on the desk, "like I said, no offense. I'm just saying—you caught Neal a couple of times out of how many tries?"

"The way this works, I only need to catch him once," he reminded her, a little pointedly.

"I know, I know, but given how long you chased him, and given Neal's own very obvious—how shall I put this?—self-confidence—"

"What a polite way of saying he's the cockiest bastard any of us have ever come across," Peter interrupted.

Diana's eyes lit up. "Exactly! It took you years to catch him the first time—"

"And only a few hours the second time." Peter felt compelled to mention this.

"True, but you know what he would say about both times—it was only because of Kate, he wasn't really trying, et cetera, et cetera."

"Yes, he would say that. The reality, however—"

"Peter." Diana held up a hand. "I get it. And you're right. But you're missing my point. Neal's good, you're good. But he's a master criminal who _thinks_ he's better. And always will. Your catching him a couple of times, as far as I can tell after years of observation, has not appreciably dimmed his own extremely high opinion of himself. Agreed?"

Oh, yes. On that, Peter agreed wholeheartedly—he gave a vigorous nod.

"Good." Diana leaned forward. "So, given all of that, why is he still here? And don't tell me it's because of the anklet," she added before Peter could say it.

"Right," Peter said. "He could run. I know that."

"Damn right he could," Diana replied. "For Neal, getting a fake ID would be child's play and Mozzie seems to have no problem getting cash when he needs it. Neal could run But he never has—well, not counting the time you told him to," she added, _sotto voce_. "So why not?"

"He wants to be free. Not a fugitive."

Diana looked pained. "Yes, but do you really think that's the only reason? Which brings me back, by the way, to my first question, about how Neal's changed."

Peter thought about it, watching Diana watch him. He thought about Neal, working cases, sharing his knowledge to catch a variety of offenders, with empathy for both criminals and victims. Neal, reeling from Rachel's deception and recovering after his abduction.

Neal, after Elizabeth's kidnapping: _I stayed in New York because of you. _Peter didn't know if that was true anymore, though.

"I think," he said slowly, after a pause, "that Neal's learned something about consequences. Dealing with victims—hell, maybe even _being _a victim—has given him a better understanding of what it's like to be on the other side of a con or a crime. Which may have made him a little less impulsive. Maybe," he added, his tone turning skeptical.

Diana's expression had gone from pained to pleased.

Peter went on. "He's learned that there are honest ways—legal ways—to use that brain and those skills of his. That he can even enjoy doing that."

"I agree. With all of that. But you've left out one very important aspect of how Neal's changed."

Peter frowned, thinking about what he'd said, what he'd forgotten. "Well, I also think he likes his life here, probably more than he'd be comfortable admitting."

"Yep. But you didn't mention how Neal feels about you."

"Ah," Peter said. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. This was getting into some more complicated territory, and Diana had been out on maternity leave for much of it. It wasn't something Peter particularly wanted to dwell on.

"Yeah," Diana said. "I understand, from Jones, that you and Neal had a bit of a . . . rough patch after the charges against you were dropped."

Peter focused on not reacting. He could only imagine what Jones had told her. The other agent had seen the frostiness between him and Neal up close and personal, without knowing the reasons why. But Jones, even less inclined than Peter to cut Neal any slack, had his own ideas about what had happened—and as Peter knew from their conversations on the subject, they didn't favor Neal.

"You're the acknowledged Caffrey expert," Diana remarked. "But I thought you might appreciate an outsider's perspective."

"I always value your opinion," Peter replied. Which was true. Particularly when it came to Neal. Like Peter, Diana could appreciate the nuances in things, and his relationship with Neal was nothing if not nuanced.

"It looks to me like the two of you have mostly gotten past whatever issues you had. Back more to where you were. With Neal respecting you. Trusting you. Not wanting to disappoint you."

"I'm not so sure."

"Sometimes I think it's almost in spite of himself, but I do believe that's how Neal feels," Diana said. "And that's one of the biggest ways he's changed over the last four years. Four years ago, I really don't think Caffrey's behavior would be affected one bit by what you thought. Well, except in the sense that he wanted to impress you with how awesome he was."

"Oh, he still wants that," Peter said, unable to keep from smiling.

"Definitely," Diana replied, smiling back. "But I think now he also wants to impress you with how . . . good he can be. That's important, Peter. Because it means that you are a big part of the changes in Neal."

"I think you're giving me too much credit."

Diana shook her head. "No, you're underestimating yourself. Look, I know you're worried about what he'll do when the anklet comes off. Worried about him backsliding. And you have reason to. Neal's not perfect, and he's always going to be tempted. But you might find him motivated more by faith—by higher expectations—than you might think. Especially _your _expectations. They matter to him. Your belief that he can't—or hasn't—changed, that his future is the same as his past, might do more damage than you realize. And that," she added, "would explain his subdued reaction to the idea that he'll be robbing museums the first chance he gets once he's free."

He didn't answer for a long moment. "It's one theory."

"Which makes a hell of a lot of sense. Like I said, you're the Caffrey expert," she said. "But I've been watching him pretty closely myself."

Elizabeth had told him this more than once—that Neal respected him, that Peter could influence him that way. While not denying it, Peter had always felt it was of limited use. Now Diana was saying the same thing. Peter still thought they were overemphasizing his role in things, but he had long ago learned the folly of arguing with Diana.

"If everything you said about Neal is true," Diana said, "then he's got lots of reasons to stay on the legal side of things. And it's time for you to realize that you're one of those reasons. Expect the best from him and you just might get it."

"If what you're saying is true," Peter shot back, "then why isn't he thinking about staying?"

Diana looked surprised. "How do you know he's not?"

"Has he told you what he's going to do?" Peter asked, deliberately not answering the question. He wondered what he'd say if Neal had told Diana—when he hadn't said anything to Peter. Neal's silence on the subject had been a source of quiet, but growing disappointment for Peter.

"Nah, he's playing his cards close to the vest," she said, eyes twinkling. "Or still figuring it out, maybe. But, you know, he will. One of these days."

* * *

><p>"He won't even talk about what he's going to do," he'd said to El over breakfast a few days later, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. El was back from DC, back with him, thank God, for so many reasons, not the least of which was that he really needed someone to talk to about this. Someone who wasn't Jones or Diana. Elizabeth missed the National Gallery, yes, but she'd missed Peter more, and he was privately and selfishly glad for it. "Every time I ask him, he changes the subject—you know how he does. I've kind of given up asking him."<p>

El looked back at him. "Maybe that's because he doesn't know what he's going to do."

"Or maybe he just doesn't want to tell me."

She considered it. "Okay. Possibly that, too."

"Well, either way, that's ridiculous," he said, the heat audible in his voice. When El didn't answer, he added, "Don't you think? I mean, first of all, he's got to know. The end of his sentence is almost here, and he's had four years to figure this out."

His wife sighed. "Actually, for the last four years, Neal has had very little control over anything in his life. Every day, he's had to be where he's told to be, do what he's told to do."

"That's a little unfair—"

Elizabeth held up a hand. "This isn't about you, hon, and it's certainly not meant as a criticism. Supervising Neal has been your job, and I know better than anyone that you've given him as much flexibility as anyone could expect you to—a lot more, in some cases."

Peter nodded, mollified.

"But you need to start looking at things from his perspective, and the reality is, his life has not been his own for four years. Now, suddenly, Neal has lots of choices—no limits at all, really, on what he does next. Is it any surprise that he's not sure which way to go? That maybe he wants to do a bunch of different things for a while?"

"I guess not." He eyed her, considering for a moment, and then it hit him. "You know, counting the time he spent in prison, it's been a lot more than four years. Really, it's been closer to eight years since he could make any real choices about his life."

Her eyes widened a bit. "Eight years, right. And Neal's only, what, in his early thirties? That's practically half of his adult life." Compassion flooded her features. "So, even more reason that he might be . . . struggling with it."

It was a hell of a long time, Peter had to admit. He hadn't realized it until this moment, and the knowledge was already shifting his perception of the situation. Still, he couldn't help asking. "Do you really think he doesn't know? Or is it that he knows and just doesn't want to tell me?"

"Could be either," she responded. "Though I have a pretty good idea which one it is."

He looked a question at her; she really wanted to roll her eyes at him for seeming to not _know_, but instead tried to explain. Usually all Peter needed in situations like this, especially where Neal was concerned, was just a little push in the right direction.

"Peter, we both know that Neal doesn't owe you anything beyond the day that anklet comes off. Right now, you know where he is every second. Could you blame him for wanting a taste of what everyone else in the world takes for granted—the freedom to wander around as he pleases, with no one knowing his whereabouts?"

That seemed to strike a chord, and Peter didn't hesitate to answer. "No."

"And you're right," Peter continued, "he won't owe me anything as a supervisory agent. That'll be over. But what about as—as a friend?"

She could see the hurt on his face—she was pretty sure Peter didn't even realize how much it showed—and automatically reached out to touch his hand. "That's why I think he doesn't know. As an agent, you have no right to ask. But as a friend, you sure as hell do. And that's why, if he knew, Neal would tell you. Something, anyway. I feel sure of it."

Peter relaxed a little, looking thoughtfully off in the distance.

"I know what you want for Neal. Does he?" When Peter didn't say anything at first, so Elizabeth continued, "When you've talked about his future, were you asking as his handler—or as his friend?"

Peter waved a hand in exasperation. "He never lets me get far enough to even talk about it!"

"So . . . maybe he has the wrong idea. Instead of demanding information he can't give, why don't you share some with him?"

"Like what?" He frowned at her.

"Like what options you can provide for him. You've talked about this with the higher-ups, right?"

"Sure." Peter nodded. "The bureaucratic wheels are in motion to keep Neal on as a paid consultant. I mean, nobody questions the results. I've got enough support to swing it." He paused, shrugging. "I'd have to move some money around, but it's doable. Well, if Neal doesn't want to be paid exorbitantly . . . ." his voice faded and his face darkened as he considered how slim the odds were that Neal _wouldn't _want to be paid exorbitantly.

"Good," Elizabeth said briskly. "So take him out for lunch. Quit trying to pump him for information. Instead, you do the talking. Tell him you understand that his future is wide-open right now, that he's got a lot of options. Then you explain that you've got one for him."

"That sounds good."

"Yes, but the only thing is . . . you need to be careful." El fixed him with a mild glare. "Talk _with _him, not _at _him. And don't push."

He rolled his eyes. "I won't."

"You probably won't mean to," she countered, "but you might anyway. Because you're you."

Peter got that injured _who me? _ look on his face that always made her want to laugh. She tapped him gently on the nose and kissed him. "This calls for a delicate touch, Agent Burke."

"I can do delicate," he assured her, even as he knew it wasn't exactly his strong suit.

El knew that, too, naturally; the look on her face said so, but she was too loyal to say it out loud. "You can. Just . . . focus."

* * *

><p>The two of them having lunch together was anything but unusual, so why did this feel different? Peter couldn't shake the feeling that Neal knew something was up. He wasn't sure if it was Neal's sixth sense kicking in, or if he himself was being obvious about it (despite trying not to be).<p>

They went to a little diner two blocks from the FBI building. It was a no-frills kind of place, but Peter had always liked it and Neal, initially somewhat dubious, had been won over by their excellent wraps and salads.

As they perused the menus, Peter could feel Neal sneak the occasional fleeting, careful glance at him. And, admittedly, Peter was probably spending more time on the options than he needed to, given that he'd been here a hundred times and the menu hadn't changed once; the grease spots were proof of that. Truth to tell, he was thinking more about what he'd say more than he was about the lunch choices.

Once they'd placed their orders—Peter a grilled chicken sandwich and Neal a wrap—Neal was staring at him expectantly, again like he knew without being told that there was an ulterior motive to this get-together. Which was no surprise, really.

"So, Neal. I wanted to talk with you." Peter, proud that he'd remembered to not say _with _and not _to, _sent a mental thank-you to El.

"Of course," Neal said. "I'm all ears." His lips were pressed together as if he were suppressing a smile. It made Peter feel wary, but he wasn't going to let that stop him.

Peter took a deep breath and started talking. "What I'm saying isn't going to be a surprise to you. But I want to make sure you know about your options . . . ."

He went on from there, being careful and even-handed and most definitely _not pushy. _Instead of asking questions, he explained that, while he was sure Neal had many possibilities available to him once the anklet came off, the FBI could be one of those. Peter could make that happen—if Neal wanted it, of course. Neal could stay on as a consultant to White Collar and possibly even other divisions if there was mutual interest. He could work with other offices, too, if that appealed to him, and he could have more say in which cases he worked. Neal looked intrigued by that idea, like he hadn't thought of that aspect. Peter kept pausing, waiting for Neal to ask questions, but Neal didn't. While Peter was still going through the talking points he'd rehearsed, the food arrived.

Other than listening and nodding and taking bites of his chicken Caesar wrap, Neal wasn't doing much. Only when Peter had said his piece did Neal observe, "This is . . . not what I expected."

Peter sipped his water, his throat slightly parched from his little soliloquy. "Oh? What did you expect?"

"I don't know," Neal said, frowning a little. "A lecture about staying on the straight and narrow, maybe?"

"Been there, done that," Peter said, which replaced Neal's frown with something brighter—not a smile exactly, but a sort of knowing smirk.

Neal traced a pattern on the condensation that coated his glass of iced tea. "Do you really think that could work?"

"_Could it work_?" Peter echoed. It seemed like a strange thing to say. "Hasn't it been working for a few years, now?"

Neal looked up at him. Peter felt a jolt at what he saw in Neal's eyes. He couldn't describe it, he just knew that he didn't like it. In that instant, he braced himself for Neal to tell him that he was insane to even propose this, that actually nothing was really working in this arrangement any more, and that Peter had completely missed the fact that Neal couldn't wait to be rid of him. That Peter had been wrong to assume they were in a much better place than they'd been a few months ago. Just then, the server arrived with the check and Peter, grateful for the distraction, glanced down at it.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," Neal blurted out. It was, for him, uncharacteristically blunt and unpolished. Peter looked up in surprise from where he'd been reviewing the bill. Neal looked like he'd even surprised himself.

"I knew . . . before," Neal went on. He looked away. "I mean, I thought I did."

Peter wondered if he meant _before the abduction. _Or, no, maybe he meant before everything that had happened since. Maybe, Peter thought, it didn't really matter which one it was.

"But now . . . ." Neal left the thought hanging, incomplete, and gave a slight, one-shouldered shrug. His expression was one of frustration., an emotion Neal rarely showed.

"I don't think that's so unusual." Peter studied him for a few seconds. "To not be sure, I mean. But . . . oh. it bothers you. Doesn't it?"

One long moment later and Neal met his gaze, the mask back in place, complete with a cocksure grin. "Why would you say that?"

Peter dealt him a _come on now_ look. "Because I know you."

"Then you know," Neal remarked, grin even wider, "that I'm ridiculously impulsive. That I thrive on spontaneity. That I—"

"Actually, what I know," Peter cut in, his tone casual, "is that you'd _like _people to think those things about you; hell, you'd like to think them about yourself. It fits the image nicely. But you are a lot more of a planner than you'd ever care to admit."

Neal opened his mouth, looking very much like he wanted to deny this, but instead he closed it again without speaking and then made another small shrug. Peter tried not to let his satisfaction at being right show on his face. Instead he said, "So I'm guessing that having no plan at all right now is making you, at the very least, uncomfortable and at worst, freaking you out."

"I do not freak out," Neal shot back, that familiar edge in his voice anytime his competency was questioned.

"Okay," Peter allowed. "Uncomfortable, then."

A small silence ensued before Neal finally spoke. "It's weird," Neal admitted. "And kind of embarrassing."

"Why?" But even as Peter asked the question, he already knew the answer. It was there in his own incredulous comment to El, now echoing in his head—_how can he not know?_

"I've had, literally, years to figure this out, but somehow I haven't." Neal let out a sardonic half-laugh and paused for a moment. "The only thing I know, right now, is that I'd like to travel. For starters. That much, I know."

"Makes sense." Peter kept his voice carefully neutral.

"Yeah, it'll be good to, you know, stretch the legs a bit." Neal's face grew thoughtful. "But I haven't really . . . gotten beyond that yet."

"Well, there's no rush," Peter said, catching sight of a stray sesame seed on his lapel and flicking it away. "And you shouldn't be too hard on yourself. About not having a plan, I mean."

Neal gave him a wry look. "Peter Burke is telling me to go with the flow?"

"Something like that." Suddenly another thought occurred to him. "You know how they tell people after they have a major change, like losing a spouse, not to make any big decisions right after? Don't sell the house right away, don't move, that kind of thing."

A little line appeared between Neal's brows as he considered it. "Are you saying I'm married to my anklet?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "No. Listen to me. I'm just saying that your sentence being up is a big deal, a big change in your life, and it makes sense not to rush into anything. Whatever you want to do, you don't have to do it all right away. The world's not going anywhere—that is," he paused, the unwelcome image of Neal in an orange jumpsuit flashing through his brain, "unless you . . . well, you know."

"Yeah," Neal sighed, as if the same unpleasant image had flitted through his mind. "I get it."

* * *

><p>Peter had had plenty of time to get used to the idea of Neal leaving New York behind, and certainly he had no right to object. It was natural, after all, that someone in Neal's position would want to travel after being restricted to New York for so long. It would probably be weird if he <em>didn't <em>want to go somewhere else.

And yet . . . despite all the time he'd had to adjust to it—the thought of Neal leaving still made something in Peter's gut twist. But he didn't want to admit that, even to himself—and certainly not to Neal. So he'd only nodded agreeably upon hearing the details a few weeks after their lunchtime conversation—well, the few that Neal had to share.

Neal's smile as he sat at his desk was blinding; Peter, passing by on his way back from the men's room, had had to ask.

Neal rattled off his flight information willingly enough, waving his just-printed itinerary in the air. He was leaving the day after his sentence ended, on a one-way ticket. Peter refrained from commenting on the fact that his CI had been booking personal travel on FBI time. As transgressions went, it was a pretty minor one. (He guessed he should count himself lucky Neal hadn't found a way to put it on Peter's credit card—just for fun.)

_He should also probably check his credit card statement before making any assumptions._

"Paris, huh?" Peter commented, leaning on the edge of a neighboring desk which was temporarily unoccupied. "They say it's lovely this time of year."

"_Any_ time of year," Neal said, a faraway look in his eyes that turned into a sparkle of delight. "You know, I used to think that visiting the Louvre was almost clichéd—there are so many other wonderful museums in Paris—but suddenly I'm really missing the Louvre."

_Well, hopefully the Louvre won't be missing anything after you leave, _was on the tip of Peter's tongue but he didn't say it. Ever since Diana had called his attention to it, he'd seen, plain as day, that the familiar little jibes about Neal's criminal proclivities didn't make him smile like they used to. Just as Diana had said, Neal still took shameless pride in any mention of his past felonious exploits, but remarks about current or future tendencies didn't elicit the same reaction. Which Peter now found surprisingly reassuring. He'd had to concentrate on not making those comments, though; the habit was far too ingrained. Instead he said, "Mozzie going with you?"

Neal's gaze sharpened, eyes focusing intently on Peter as he gave a small shake of his head. "No."

Also reassuring in its own way . . . though Peter wasn't sure he was too excited about the idea of Neal wandering Paris alone. Then he gave himself a mental shake. Neal was an adult. There was nothing wrong with him being on his own, if he wanted to be.

_And who says he's going to be alone, anyway? _Peter was pretty sure Neal had spent quite a bit of time in Paris back in the day. He probably had friends there; Neal was the type of guy who probably had friends everywhere.

Thinking about the kinds of friends Neal might have, however, made Peter reconsider whether Neal being on his own was really such a _bad_ thing . . . .

When he brought his eyes back to meet Neal's, he saw a glint there that made him pretty sure Neal knew exactly what he'd been thinking. "Mozzie is—he's got something else going on in the next little while."

Peter knew better than to ask what that might be. "And after Paris?"

Neal leaned back in the chair, spread his arms wide in an expansive gesture. "To be determined."

Peter nodded.

"But," Neal continued, "you know what Oscar Wilde said about Paris."

"What's that?"

"That it's where good Americans get to go when they die."

"Yeah, well, let's not test that theory," Peter told him sternly.

"Shouldn't be a problem."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Because . . . ?"

"_Good _Americans, Peter." Neal smiled as he put a delicate but definite emphasis on the first word. "That would seem to exclude me. You know, being a convicted felon and all."

"Which doesn't make you a bad person," Peter said.

Neal raised his eyebrows. "You probably should be careful about saying that kind of thing to a criminal."

The look Peter gave him was long and searching, his face solemn, but finally Peter's lips quirked into a smile. "A _reformed _criminal."

Neal smiled back, then ducked his head in an approximation of shyness that actually looked real. He cleared his throat. "Anyway," he continued, "I might stay there a while. Or not. It depends . . . ."

There was no need for Peter to ask, _on what? _Because he knew that what Neal would do depended on nothing predictable, or quantifiable or definable. It would depend on how Neal felt when he woke up on any given Paris morning.

That was the whole point.

* * *

><p>"Oh, really? Paris!" El said appreciatively (not to mention wistfully) that evening over a quiet dinner out. "Good for him."<p>

Peter didn't say anything. Elizabeth wasn't wrong, of course, but in his heart of hearts, he wished Neal would have foregone the adventuring.

Or, at least, talked about coming back. That, he knew, was probably a more realistic goal at this point.

He brought his mind back to the conversation. His wife had fixed him with an appraising stare. "—did you?"

"Did I what?" Lost in a reverie, he'd missed something.

"You didn't make him feel guilty, did you?"

"I was appropriately happy," he assured her. Though, as he thought back on it, he hadn't exactly expressed happiness. "Or . . . at least, I didn't say anything negative."

Elizabeth sighed. "This is an exciting thing for him, honey. You should be happy for him. As a friend."

She was right, as El usually was. He should be happy for Neal. And he was. Kind of. The problem was, it was hard to separate that from his own personal feelings of knowing that Neal was leaving and maybe never coming back.

Thinking about that made Peter feel anything but happy. And yet he knew he should be encouraged that Neal was even considering staying in New York. Because not so long ago, that would have been a foregone conclusion. He thought back to that day when he'd had to tell Neal that the anklet was staying on, that the DOJ was opposed to the early release. Peter had honestly thought that Neal, angry and upset, still dealing with the aftermath of Rebecca's treachery and his own decision to go to DC, might actually just run. Later that day, of course, Peter had decided he was staying in New York after all.

It was the day Neal had disappeared.

A dark day, for so many reasons. But a lot had happened since then.

_TBC_

* * *

><p><em>AN: The upcoming chapters will fill in some of the events that occurred between the end of Season 5 (Diamond Exchange) and the beginning of this story._

_Thank you for reading. Comments, as always, are greatly appreciated!  
><em>


	2. Something Precious

A Chance to Be Better

**Chapter Two - Something Precious**

"_When we lost something precious, and we'd looked and looked and still couldn't find it, then we didn't have to be completely heartbroken. We still had that last bit of comfort, thinking one day… we would… find it."  
>― Kazuo Ishiguro, <em>_Never Let Me Go_

* * *

><p><em>Several months earlier<em>

"So he's not here." Peter swore viciously, slamming his gun back into his holster with a glower that said he'd much rather be firing it at someone. Diana and Jones exchanged a tense glance, refraining from stating the obvious—that no one was here.

As protocol demanded, Peter had been outside the perimeter, in the command center, as the raid began. He'd wanted to be inside, but the SAIC didn't participate in the first sweep; instead the SWAT team made the initial, carefully-planned entry. He'd waited the bare minimum of time and rushed inside the building with the rest of the team as soon as the first _all clear _was given, to participate in the search. The search which was now over and had revealed that no one was there.

Now he was stalking around, not bothering to hide his frustration, while everyone else was careful to keep their heads down, keep working, and keep out of his way.

Peter ran a hand through his hair, spinning around angrily to survey the vicinity, as if Neal might magically walk out from behind one of the printing presses or workbenches that surrounded them, joining the crowd of SWAT team members and White Collar agents. It could happen, he told himself. Didn't Neal have a flair for doing what seemed impossible? Then reality intruded, shattering the fantasy, and he swallowed hard. "You're sure the building's clear? Everything's been checked?"

"All clear," Jones reported, his tone grim. The warehouse was large, but the team had been through it, with Peter and Jones supervising them not just every step of the way, but every _inch _of the way. Everyone on the hand-picked FBI team knew what—no, _who_—they were looking for. The initial sweep had been exhaustive; nothing had been missed. The place contained lots of machinery and, hopefully, plenty of evidence of the counterfeiting operation that had been run out of here until, apparently, quite recently. But there were no people. None of the crew that had been holed up here.

And, more importantly, no Neal.

The formal process of evidence collection had begun and would continue for hours. Peter stood there, fidgeting, watching his agents do their jobs. There would be a painstaking examination of every nook and cranny, every room, drawer, crate, and cabinet, for any item that could be used to prove what crimes had been committed and where their quarry had gone. But the first priority, namely, everything that could potentially hide a person, had already been quite thoroughly searched—quite thoroughly ripped apart, in some cases.

"I'm taking a look," Peter said, over his shoulder. He was already moving away from them, cutting purposefully through the crowd of agents and ERT members, to survey the areas he hadn't been to personally yet.

Jones exchanged another knowing, wordless glance with Diana. They'd expected nothing less. It wasn't an expression of a lack of confidence in the team; it was just that there was no way Peter was going to leave the scene without having another look around for himself. For Peter, anything would be better than standing there doing nothing.

….

They'd been so sure. After days without a lead, after days that had turned weeks of unspoken fear that they'd never find Neal, they'd finally gotten a solid lead, thanks to Mozzie's connections and the linkages they'd been able to make to recent top-quality forgeries that had turned up—in New York and elsewhere.

The day the Matisse had shown up, with the tiny _CH_ hidden in the sailor's pants . . . it was the first hope they'd had in weeks. That Neal might be out there, and trying to signal them.

With Mozzie's help, Peter and his team had gathered intelligence and, eventually, tracked the group to this location. As they'd planned the operation, the team's confidence that they'd find Neal had grown. Peter had even allowed himself to shift from worry that they wouldn't find him to worry about what his condition would be after being held captive for weeks—under what conditions, Peter didn't want to think about.

Now, though, it felt as if they were back to square one.

Together Diana and Jones trailed their boss as he methodically worked his way through the warehouse.

"How'd they know?" Peter spat as he peered through the doorway of a large storage room, surveying the emptiness beyond. His fury had begun to fade, along with the adrenaline surge, replaced with overwhelming disappointment.

It was a good question. The gang that had been here had had time to clear out. Time they shouldn't had. The raid was supposed to have taken them by surprise; it clearly hadn't.

"Maybe whoever tipped Mozzie tipped them, too," Diana suggested.

That made Peter stop and consider it. "Makes sense," he said. "It sure as hell wasn't us."

Jones spoke up. "We'll look into it."

"I've already got a call in to Mozzie; he's gonna make some inquiries." Peter had made his way over to the garage area, where a van and a late-model Ford were parked. Neither had tags. "What about these vehicles?"

"We'll run the VINs. They've been checked; they're empty."

Peter could see that; the doors were open and the car's trunk had been popped. He walked alongside anyway, crouching down to peer underneath. Jones knew he was looking for hidden panels or trapdoors in the floor. There were none to find, though; Jones had already looked. He stayed quiet, just watching and letting Peter satisfy himself that there was nothing to find. Finally, Peter finally stood up, face impassive, and kept searching.

Jones, along with Diana, stayed at Peter's side as he trekked through the remainder of the massive building. Right now, it was the only thing they could do.

Of course, it wasn't nearly enough.

* * *

><p>A half hour had passed and they were back in the center of the warehouse, the large, wide-open space where most of the equipment was housed. Activity was still going on around them - agents bustling around searching and collecting evidence, dusting every surface they could find for fingerprints - but things had quieted down.<p>

At Peter's order, thermal imaging equipment was being brought in. There was always the possibility of a hidden wall or room somewhere in the massive structure. It might be a slim hope, but it was fast becoming to be the only one they had.

Peter was drained and dispirited, but trying not to show it. Over the last few weeks, guilt and fear had made it hard for him to sleep; when he did doze off, he was awakened by images of Neal injured and in pain, begging Peter to find him. It was unsettling enough that he'd just as soon stay awake, but that meant he was constantly tired. Now, that crushing weariness, coupled with the bitter disappointment of today's failure, was hitting him hard. And even though he knew the warehouse provided some hope of leads, what he'd seen so far had not been promising. If Neal really had been here—and Peter felt in his gut that he had been—he had hoped that at least maybe Neal would have left some hint, some clue. But so far they'd turned up nothing—no origami, no coded messages. Nothing to tell them where Neal and his abductors had gone.

The only possible evidence of Neal's presence was found in a small room, lit by a few small, high windows. A cupboard contained oil paints, brushes and a few blank canvases. There was a thin blanket on the floor and a sturdy lock on the door. ERT had already bagged everything and put a rush on the results of the analysis. If Neal's prints showed up on the supplies, at least they would know for sure that he'd been there.

_For whatever that's worth, _Peter thought tiredly.

At the moment, he felt purposeless. For the first time in a week, when they'd realized the forgeries might be connected to Neal, they had nothing to go on. And Peter, much as he hated to admit it, felt like a man with nowhere to go. It was too late to return to the office. His house in Brooklyn, with no Elizabeth, no Satchmo, and little beyond the bare necessities of life, wasn't exactly an attractive destination these days, either.

As if reading his mind, Diana came up next to him. "Hey, boss, we've got everything under control here. We'll supervise the thermal search and let you know if anything turns up. You look beat. Why don't you call it a night?"

She was right; they didn't need him there. And yet . . . "I don't know," he responded heavily.

His attempt to keep his dejection from showing on his face must have failed, because she put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll find him."

He dredged up a smile. "We always do, right?" It was an old joke that, in light of recent events, had lost its appeal.

Diana smiled back and squeezed his arm before walking over to confer with Jones. Peter felt suddenly very tired, and very old. Again he debated in his mind whether to stay or go. Was there really any point to his staying? Probably not, but something in his gut rebelled against the idea of leaving when the team was still there, while there was still a chance of finding something useful. He swept his gaze around the room one more time, glancing down at the floor and noticing something dark—a few spots, or drops. He bent down to get a closer look.

It could be oil or grease. Or blood.

"Jones."

"Yeah?" Jones made his way over. He didn't say anything else, but squatted down next to his boss.

Peter angled his head in the direction of the dark splotches on the floor. "What do you think?"

Jones leaned over, squinting at the ground. "Don't know, but we'll check it out." He stood up. "Hey, Hanson, we need a scraping over here."

Peter stood up, groaning at the stiffness in his back, and stepped out of the way, watching the tech do his job. He leaned back against a nearby printing press and stifled a yawn, trying not to think about where Neal was right now.

One thought had been quietly terrifying him ever since it became clear that the warehouse was empty: now that Neal's captors knew the FBI was after them, how would they react? From all appearances, they'd cut and run. But had they taken Neal with them? Or had they closed up shop and decided that Neal wasn't worth the trouble?

Seeing those dark drops on the floor made his gut churn. If it was blood, at least there wasn't much of it. But it triggered more bleak thoughts, all the same. Was Neal even still alive? Peter shuddered inwardly at the thought that they'd never find him. That, months or even years from now, Neal's disappearance would still be a mystery, with Peter never knowing if he was dead or alive. Would that really be worse than finding his body, though? Peter wasn't sure; the only thing he was sure of was that he didn't want to contemplate either scenario.

_Stop it, _he told himself sternly. He'd promised himself early on in this nightmare that the one thing he wouldn't do—would _never_ do—would be to give up hope. He wasn't going to break that promise now.

Another wave of exhaustion washed over him. Peter gave into it, leaning back a little further, but an instant later he jumped, startled, when the press shifted, ever so slightly, under his weight.

That was odd. He would have thought the equipment would be anchored pretty solidly . . . Peter bent to examine the bottom of the machine and felt a jolt in his chest at the sight. For a moment his brain whirred to a stop at what he was seeing.

_Wheels._

The press was on wheels. Which meant it was movable. Which could mean . . . .

He stepped back, braced himself, and pushed, rewarded with a very slight movement, but not nearly enough. The thing was too damn heavy. Crouching down, he made his way around the machine, feeling underneath without finding what he was looking for. Then he felt it. At the opposite end, there was a lever on the underside that looked to be a locking mechanism. He grabbed it and pulled. It lifted without difficulty. Like it had been moved frequently. And recently.

"Hey, Jones! Diana!" They both looked over at him as he raced back to the other end of the apparatus. "I need some help here."

The urgency in his voice brought them quickly to his side, along with seemingly everyone else in the vicinity. "This thing's on wheels, and I think I just unlocked it. We're gonna push it toward the door," Peter said; they all lined up and nodded assent. "On three. One, two, three."

Under the weight of many hands, the press, large and heavy though it was, slid surprisingly easily. Peter, grunting with the effort, had his back turned to the now-exposed floor at first, but he heard a quick intake of breath, followed by Blake's voice. "Agent Burke!"

Peter whirled and raced back to where Blake stood next to a rectangle, not much wider than Peter's shoulders, that was a darker gray than the rest of the surrounding floor. It was flush with the floor but looked like metal, with a raised ridge pattern, whereas the surrounding surface was concrete.

The rectangle had hinges. And was latched with a padlock. A big, fucking padlock.

Jones was speaking before Peter's suddenly-dry mouth could form the words. "Get some bolt cutters over here!"

Peter knelt, looked at it more closely, and swore under his breath. "Forget it. The lock's shielded. Cutters won't work." _If Neal had been there, this would be easy. _"I need picks."

One of the probies had a set of lock picks on him, and Peter gave it a go, without success. Admitting defeat after a few minutes, he moved aside, wiping the sweat that was running down his forehead, and ceded his spot to Diana, who was generally acknowledged to be the second-best lock-picker on the team. Everyone knew who was the best was (and it sure as hell wasn't Peter).

After a few minutes of swearing, Diana gave up, too. "Can't get it, boss," she said, angry with herself. "Hard to get a good angle, and it's high quality."

"Drill," Peter said instantly. "We need a drill, then. Or a blowtorch."

"Already on the way," Jones assured him.

Peter's heart was thumping in his chest. Still on the ground, he pounded on the door with the side of his closed fist. It felt like steel, solid and unyielding. "Anyone down there? Neal?" He leaned down against the metal, which was surprisingly cold against his ear, motioned for silence, and listened.

Nothing. But a hidden steel door and that heavy-duty lock had to be there for a reason. Hope was coursing through him; he couldn't help it.

He sat up on his knees and looked around at the ring of anxious faces that surrounded him. "Where the hell is the equipment?"

Peter had barely finished the words when an ERT agent knelt next to him, setting down a heavy duffel bag. "Let me take care of this, Agent Burke."

Nodding and appreciating her self-assuredness, Peter slid out of the way, staying on his knees, and watched the agent work. She drilled straight into the center of the keyhole, then stopped to change bits.

"This won't take long," she assured him, no doubt sensing his impatience. He wondered if a blowtorch would have been faster, but kept his mouth shut. No point in thinking about it now.

With the second bit in place, she began to cut through the tumblers, using a slower speed that made Peter grit his teeth. After a moment or two, she stopped to look inside the cylinder frowning at what she saw before starting again with more slow, careful drilling.

Peter watched in frustration, thinking once more about blowtorches and how this was taking way too long.

The agent set the drill aside and peered in again at the inner workings of the lock. This time she nodded in satisfaction at what she saw.

"There it is."

She retrieved a screwdriver from her equipment bag and inserted it into the cylinder of the lock. It popped open immediately.

"Thanks," Peter said as she stood up to allow him access. "Print what's left of that," he added distractedly, waving a hand in the direction of the remnants of the padlock. It hit him that he hadn't been wearing gloves when he'd tried to pick it, so his prints would be on there—Diana's, too. Oh well. Right now he couldn't have cared less—but he did at least, belatedly, take a handkerchief from his pocket and cover his hand with it before opening the latch and lifting the door.

Christ, but it was heavy. Partly because the metal was very thick and partly because there was something attached to it, he realized. Steps. A rickety set of stairs that only descended when the door was opened, with the screeching sound of metal on metal.

A little chill ran down his spine as he leaned over, seeing only pitch-black dark beyond the faint light from above that illuminated the first few steps, and was met with a blast of cool, stale-smelling air. "This is the FBI. Anyone down there?"

Silence. Peter's heart sank.

There was no light at all from below, but someone, he had no idea who, had put a flashlight in his hand. He pointed it down, seeing more rusting metal stairs and beyond the range of the flashlight's beam, more darkness.

Jones's hand was on his shoulder, his voice pitched low. "Peter. What if this is some kind of trap?"

"It isn't," Peter growled. Or at least his gut was telling him so, and his gut was rarely wrong. If Neal was down there, he didn't want him spending one more second there than was necessary.

But if Neal really was down there, why wasn't he answering? The only possibilities Peter could think of were . . . ones he didn't want to think of.

Still, Jones could be right. Before he set a foot on the stairs, Peter drew his weapon and then swept the light carefully across the underside of the door, the edges of the opening, and the top steps, looking for tripwires or sensors, anything that could pose a threat. There was nothing that he could see.

The air flowing from the chamber was cold and damp. His lungs already felt clogged from just a few breaths. He couldn't imagine spending any time in that dark hole.

"Stay up here," Peter said. "I don't like the look of those steps."

Jones and Diana had identical looks on their faces that said they didn't like this one bit, but they didn't try to argue.

"Just . . . be careful, Peter," Diana said.

Peter nodded. "I will."

With the Maglite in one hand and his gun in the other, Peter started down the stairs. They creaked and swayed alarmingly under his weight. Above him, he could hear Jones swearing under his breath. Peter tensed his body, trying to prepare himself to fall in case the whole thing collapsed under him.

"Anyone here?"

Still no answer, damnit.

Just when Peter was starting to lose hope, convinced this was another dead end, he heard a rattling sound behind him, followed by a cough. He whirled to point the light—and his weapon—in that direction.

His mouth was forming the word _Freeze!_ when he heard a faint voice saying his name. It didn't sound like Neal's voice, but Peter knew it anyway. Would have known it anywhere, anytime, no matter how raw and rough and unfamiliar it sounded. No matter how long it had been since he'd heard it.

And there was Neal, bathed in the light, blocking his eyes with a hand that trailed a chain behind it. He was sitting in the far corner of the dark, cramped space, on the floor with both legs slightly bent up in front of him; Peter caught a glimpse of silver encircling both wrists as he rushed over to him, covering the distance of maybe twenty feet in a few hasty strides.

"Neal! Are you okay?" He knelt, belatedly pointing the flashlight beam down so Neal wouldn't be blinded by it. It illuminated another chain, wrapped around his waist and connected to restraints on both ankles. They were so short, Peter realized, that Neal couldn't even extend his legs fully. And they were bolted to the goddamned _floor_. Neal had been thrown into an escape-proof pit, and the bastards had still chained him to the floor. The sheer sadism of it made white-hot rage boil up inside him, and he had to take a deep breath to hold it in.

Neal was staring at him open-mouthed, blue eyes wide with shock above an unkempt scruff of beard. When he spoke, his voice quavered ever so slightly. "Peter." He stopped, cleared his throat. "It's really you?"

"It's really me," Peter said, relief rushing over him in a tidal wave so intense that, for this moment, he was glad to be on the floor. His knees actually felt weak with it. "Are you—how are you?"

"Been better, but b-basically okay," Neal said hoarsely, punctuating the words with another cough. He was shivering, minute little tremors that kept coming. Peter wondered if he even realized he was doing it. "I mean, as okay as anybody left in an underground pit can be, I guess." The chain clinked again as he brought a hand to rest on Peter's arm. His touch felt clammy and insubstantial, and his voice was disbelieving. "You're real this time."

_TBC_

_Thanks for reading and special thanks to all who reviewed. Your comments are much appreciated! It's wonderful to know that you find this story worth your time._


	3. True Strength

A Chance to Be Better

…..

**Chapter Three – True Strength**

"_Anyone can give up; it is the easiest thing in the world to do. But to hold it together when everyone would expect you to fall apart, now that is true strength."  
>― Chris Bradford, <em>_The Way of the Sword _

* * *

><p><em>The chain clinked again as Neal brought a hand to rest on Peter's arm. His touch felt clammy and insubstantial, and his voice was disbelieving. "You're real this time."<em>

"In the flesh," Peter said, trying to smile even though Neal's words felt like a shot through the heart. How many times while trapped down here, helpless and desperate, had Neal imagined, or dreamed that Peter had come?

He pushed the thought away and holstered his gun, studying his CI in what little light the flashlight cast. Neal was alive and aware, thank God, but contrary to his words, he looked far from _okay. _ His face was heavily bruised, new contusions atop old ones, and his eyes were sunken, the right one blackened and swollen. Dried blood was caked along that side of his face; it had trickled from a jagged gash on his forehead that looked days old and infected, half-hidden by strands of long, greasy hair. Neal's lips were cracked and dry, and another angry red cut decorated the bottom one. Peter felt horror pool in his stomach when he caught sight of the fading bruises that ringed Neal's neck. He was wearing only a pair of pants and a thin undershirt, crusted with dirt and splashes of what Peter feared was dried blood; his feet were bare. Peter took a moment to scan Neal up and down, seeing no other obvious signs of bleeding, which was at least something positive. Carefully, he slid his fingers around Neal's wrist, feeling the too-rapid pulse that beat there and vaguely registering that the dry skin under his fingers—it felt more like tissue paper than skin—felt too warm.

"I'm not dead," Neal muttered, looking down at Peter's hand, but he didn't try to free his wrist.

"Thank God." Peter leaned back in the direction of the stairs. "Neal's here," he called out belatedly, hearing the sounds of relief from above. "I got him. I'm gonna need those bolt cutters now, though."

Peter released Neal's arm with a _be right back _and made his way over to the bottom of the stairs. Jones came down the first few steps so he could put the cutters in Peter's hands, but he didn't come any closer. "How is he?"

"Conscious and talking," Peter said, looking at Neal, now back in half-shadow. It was too soon to say much more than that.

"That's good," Jones said, relieved.

"Yeah. He's chained up, though." Then Peter realized that was needless; Jones would know that was why he needed bolt cutters.

"You need any help with him?" Jones hesitated. "Or Diana . . . I can send her down."

"No, I can handle him for now. Try to stay off those stairs; they could go at any moment. If I need help, I'll let you know, just stand by."

"Guys, I'm right _here_," Neal said, with just a touch of petulance, and despite his unspoken fear for Neal's condition, Peter's heart warmed at how normal he sounded, at least in saying those words.

"So you are," Jones answered with a quick glance at Peter. He turned around to smile at Neal as Peter shone the light back in his direction. He should have left the flashlight back there with him, Peter realized. "Hey, Neal. It is good to see you, man."

Neal cleared his throat—it turned into a wet-sounding cough that Peter didn't like the sound of at all—and managed a small smile. "Likewise."

"Got a blanket, too," Jones said, tossing it down to Peter.

"I don't need—" Neal began.

"Yes, you do," Peter said, then realizing how brusque he sounded, added, "Just—just humor me, okay?"

"Guess I can do that." Neal tried for flippant, not quite succeeding, but he didn't protest when Peter returned to his side and tucked the blanket gently around his shoulders, sliding it behind him so his back was no longer pressed against the damp concrete. He grunted a little as Peter pulled the blanket tight.

"You okay?" Peter asked anxiously. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, 's okay," Neal mumbled. "Just—my back's a little sore, that's all."

Peter nodded, then gestured to the restraints. "Let's get you out of those. Here, can you hold this for me?" He held the flashlight out to Neal, thinking maybe it would help to give him some control over something, however small.

"Sure," Neal said, looking ridiculously grateful.

Jones seemed to understand everything that neither of them was saying. "If you guys are okay, then, I'll be right up here if you need anything," he said. "And we called the paramedics; they'll be here soon."

Right; they'd sent the paramedics away when they thought the warehouse was empty. "Good," Peter replied. He lowered his voice. "Just . . . give us a little time."

"Will do," Jones assured him. "Take it easy, Neal."

"Thanks, Jones," Neal rasped as the other agent gave him a small salute and backed up the steps and out of sight

Neal held the flashlight in his right hand, pointing it awkwardly at the chain connected to his left wrist. The chains, fortunately, were light and thin, like the kind used in corrections when transporting prisoners. Really, they were the kind of restraints that Neal would, under normal circumstances, have found a way to pick or slip inside of five minutes. Peter didn't want to think about why Neal, instead of having done that, was sitting here in them quietly. Why Neal hadn't even answered him when he first called down the stairs.

Peter smashed the links of the first chain with one satisfying _snap_—probably using more force than necessary, but it felt good. Neal fumbled with the Maglite for a moment, almost dropping it; Peter had to fight the urge to reach out and grab it. Finally he managed to transfer it clumsily to his left hand and pointed it so Peter could free the right one. He did so, and Neal started to pull his legs further toward him so Peter could more easily get to the chains on his ankles. Hissing, he cut off the movement abruptly, closing his eyes and slumping back against the wall.

"Neal, Neal, just stay still. I can reach it." Neal opened his eyes as Peter repositioned himself in front of his legs, cutting both shackles, along with the one around his waist. He pulled the restraints loose and threw them aside.

Neal was free.

"That feels . . . good," Neal said, though his facial expression said anything but. Rather, his face said he was in a world of pain and trying really hard not to show it. With agonizing slowness, he straightened out his legs, first the left and then the right. His breaths were carefully shallow, like anything deeper would hurt, and despite the blanket, he was still shivering.

"I bet. Bet you're ready to get out of here, too."

Neal's response was heartfelt. "You h-have no idea."

Peter gave him a grim smile and grabbed his right shoulder to help him up. He was unprepared for the way Neal flinched away from his touch, automatically and violently. As if Peter had struck him instead of touching him. A twinge of cold fear flickered down Peter's spine, and he quickly pulled his hand back.

"Sorry, I just . . . just need a minute . . . ." Neal was looking down at the floor. Belatedly, he rolled his shoulder as if to cover what he'd done, the way he'd shied away like—like a frightened animal.

"Hey, it's okay. Take as long as you need." Peter mentally cursed his own carelessness, knowing now that he needed to tread lightly. "Look, the paramedics are—"

"I'm not at my best, Peter, but I'm not deaf," Neal said, sounding suddenly testy. "I heard Jones say they're coming."

"Right." Peter studied him, studied the mulish look on his face, which quickly melted into very un-Neal-like contrition under his gaze. The expression was so _not Neal _that it made Peter's heart hurt. And though he was free, Neal had barely moved. Peter's first instinct was just to grab him and drag him out of here _right now_. But he'd seen how Neal reacted to a mere touch. It was now clear to him Neal needed to do this on his terms, if he was able. Peter owed him that much, at least. His partner didn't appear to be in any imminent danger. So even though every fiber of his being screamed _get him out of here, do it now, _Peter waited.

Neal squeezed his eyes shut, reaching up to probe the ugly cut on his forehead with a grimy finger and grimacing in pain. "Shit. I'm sorry, sorry," Neal said, letting his hand fall back to his side. He took a deep breath and reopened his eyes, but he was still looking at the ground instead of Peter. "Shouldn't be snapping at you, of all people. You, who should be in DC, at your cushy desk job, instead of spending time looking for me."

"It's okay," Peter answered automatically, though Neal's last comment had caught him off guard. He'd completely forgotten that, as far as Neal was aware, he'd taken the job in Washington. Though, God knew, now was not the time to explain his career choices. "You have _nothing_ to be sorry for. I'd say you have an excuse, for once," he added, trying to lighten the mood a little.

"Yeah," Neal said, in a tone that sounded suddenly far-away. He lifted his hand again to eye level, this time examining the red ligature marks the restraints had left on his wrist as if seeing them for the first time (and, given the darkness he'd been kept in, Peter realized, maybe it was). "Yeah, cause, y'know, I, uh . . . I've been . . . under a lot of stress lately."

He looked up at Peter and even in the dim light, Peter could see what looked like the barest hint of a spark in his eyes. There was a trace of something frighteningly manic about it, but it was there. Neal's lips started to curl into a smile, slowly, as if in spite of himself. Peter shook his head, but couldn't help responding in kind. A moment later and Neal's smile had turned into an honest-to-goodness grin.

"_A lot of stress_," Peter repeated solemnly. "Yeah. I guess you could say that."

"Just did," Neal croaked and now he was actually chuckling, apparently at the sheer ridiculousness of it, but there was no humor in the sound. It sounded ugly and wild and raw. "Oh, this is so, _so _messed up. _I _am so messed up, Jesus, I don't even know . . . ." he didn't finish the sentence, just tipped his head back against the wall and kept laughing quietly to himself.

Peter was still worried, but the fact that Neal _could _laugh eased the sharp fear in his chest some. He only hoped Neal wasn't losing it. Or about to fall apart.

Neal had never been the falling-apart type, though, and just like that, he stopped laughing and opened his eyes to look at Peter, his gaze intense.

"Did you get them?"

"No," Peter said, hating the answer. "Not yet, but we will. Somebody must've tipped them off, and the place is deserted. Except for you. But that's the last thing you need to worry—wait. You think you know where they went?"

"No," Neal admitted and for the first time since Peter had found him, his face betrayed real distress. "They hadn't . . . talked to me in a while. I didn't even know they left. Can't hear anything down here . . . ." his voice faded away as he looked around the tiny room. He paused and swallowed hard before asking, "Where _is _here, anyway?"

"A warehouse in Jersey City." Peter shone the light around the room, anger pulsing in his veins as he took in the cramped quarters—a long, narrow space, maybe twenty feet long and no more than six feet wide—and the utter lack of furnishings, save for the bucket that sat within arm's reach of Neal and a small, half-empty bottle of water that lay several feet away. No lights, no break in the concrete walls at all except for two tiny air vents up near the ceiling. There was no hope of escape from here.

_Especially when you were chained to the damn floor._

"Huh." Neal considered it. "They put a bag over my head and injected me with something, so I didn't know where they took me. Finally get my anklet off and I only make it as far as Jersey City." He managed a shaky laugh and scratched at the ragged beard. "Man, that sucks."

"It does," Peter said, but that was a lie. He'd spent too many sleepless nights in those early weeks, when they'd had no leads, agonizing over the fact that Neal could be anywhere, consumed with fear that his captors had taken him halfway around the world, far out of Peter's reach. That they hadn't was one of the few things Peter was grateful for.

Well, that and the fact that they hadn't killed Neal before they left.

He would have tracked Neal to the ends of the earth, if necessary, but it had been a hell of a lot easier to find him in Jersey City than it would have been in, say, Geneva.

"We'll get them, Neal," Peter said, his voice suddenly husky with emotion he couldn't suppress. "I promise you that." _If it's the last thing I ever do._

Neal nodded absently, like this was too obvious a point to bother discussing. "Left to rot in Jersey City. In this hole. Not how I saw things going when . . ." His tone was reflective; there was no anger in it. Then, switching gears, he said, "Could I—" he stopped to cough again—"some water would be great."

"Of course," Peter said, annoyed with himself for not offering it first. Involuntarily his eyes flicked over to the near-empty water bottle that lay across the room. It hit him, suddenly, that Neal, when he'd been restrained, wouldn't have been able to reach it.

Fury burned deep inside him. He swallowed hard, called out. "Jones! We need some water down here."

Neal saw him looking across at the bottle. "Oh, there it is. They gave me that—I don't know, a few days ago." He gave a little one-shouldered shrug. "I was trying to conserve it, you know? But then I must have fallen asleep or something and dropped it." He sighed. "By the time I realized, it was gone. Must have rolled away. I tried to find it in the dark, but I couldn't reach it anymore."

Peter didn't answer, mainly because he didn't trust himself to speak. _When I find them, I will rip them apart. I will—_

"I'll be ready to go in a minute, I just—" Neal broke off, shifting a little to sit up straighter and grunting. Slowly he started to stretch and flex his limbs, first his arms and then his legs. His lips were pressed together as he breathed in through his nose; Peter could tell he was trying to contain the pain.

"No rush," Peter told him. "Take as much time as you need."

"Here you go, Peter." Jones was back on the stairs, a bottle of Aquafina in his hand. The desperate look of gratitude in Neal's eyes at the sight of the water put a lump in Peter's throat.

Peter handed Neal the bottle, trying not to stare too obviously at his shaking hand as he took it. Neal didn't so much drink the water as he inhaled it, with a predictable result: he was soon choking and spluttering. Peter held the bottle while Neal coughed, pressing a hand to his ribs and grimacing. Normally he would have thumped Neal on the back, but instead he settled for rubbing in what he hoped were comforting little circles. He was careful to keep his touch light and gentle, not wanting to trigger a repeat of Neal's reaction earlier. El did that for him sometimes; it always felt good when she did it.

Also, it helped distract Peter—a little bit, anyway—from the murderous rage that made him want to smash something.

"You okay?" he asked when Neal had stopped coughing and gasping for air.

Neal nodded acknowledgment and ran his tongue over his lips to moisten them, wincing when he touched the cut on the lower one. "Ribs are—a little sore," he said, reaching out for the water again. He drank, slower this time, but he still drained what was left in the bottle in only a few seconds and then out a long, blissful-sounding sigh.

"How about some more?" Peter asked. "I can—"

"Nah, not right now. Later." Neal set the empty bottle on the ground and tilted his head back against the concrete wall, exhaling slowly.

"And when did you eat last?" Peter should have asked this question much earlier, he realized. He was afraid of what the answer would be. Other than a candy bar wrapper near Neal's right side, there was no evidence of any food. _Somebody upstairs would have some snacks, surely . . . ._

"No idea, been a while . . . look, Peter, I n—need to get _out_ of here." Neal still made no effort to move, though. His jaw was clenched, but his teeth were chattering anyway. Peter's own arms were already covered in goose bumps; he didn't want to think about how cold Neal must feel. _Even though he's warm to the touch, _Peter thought worriedly.

"Sure." Peter pressed the blanket more tightly around his shoulders; not wanting to push Neal, but this was the cue he'd been waiting for, that he was ready to go. Then Peter thought about the paramedics who weren't there yet, damnit, and how the hell he was going to get Neal over to and up those stairs. "You think you can walk?"

"I'm gonna try." At Peter's doubtful expression, Neal added, "Do I look like I'm about to drop dead?" He reconsidered. "Okay, I probably look like crap, but I'm not gonna keel over. Not unless I have to make it on my own, and you won't make me do that, will you, Peter?"

Peter recognized the pale imitation of Neal's best wheedling tone, knew full well he was being manipulated. Part of him was glad Neal had the energy to try, even if the effort did lack his usual finesse. "Hell, no. I just don't want you to hurt yourself worse."

Neal shook his head stubbornly. "Don't worry about that." His voice softened as he locked eyes with Peter. "Anyway, you're here now. You got my back, right?"

And, really, how was Peter going to argue with _that_? "Always. We'll do it together."

Neal smiled and Peter did, too. For one long moment, they just stared at each other, eyes full of all the emotions they weren't saying out loud.

"Okay," Peter said, his voice rough as he broke the silence. "First, just tell me where you're hurt. I want a list so I know what we're dealing with. And be honest."

"Head hurts," Neal said, readily enough. "Shoulder. Back, ribs. That's the main stuff. I'm sore, yeah, but I'm not _dying_." Seeing the worried look on Peter's face, Neal's gaze took on an element of desperation. "Okay, Peter? Please, just help me up."

The plea would have melted a heart much harder than Peter's. "Fine, but we're going to take it slow, okay? And if you feel too weak or you're hurting too much, you need to be honest with me. If it's too bad, we stop and wait for the paramedics." _Or you just let me carry you, _Peter thought but was careful not to say. He was pretty sure Neal would be less than receptive to that particular suggestion.

"Sure. Don't worry, slow is all I can handle right now," Neal assured him.

Peter got to his feet without thinking and then swore as he banged his head on the ceiling. There wasn't even room to stand up in this hellhole. He rubbed his head. Tight spaces had never bothered Peter, but all of a sudden his skin was crawling with the need to get out of here. He couldn't even begin to imagine how Neal felt after being trapped down here for days, maybe even weeks . . . .

_When he found these bastards—_

He gave a mental headshake, bringing himself out of his revenge fantasy and back to now, where Neal was bracing himself to get up. He had his right hand flat on the ground and his left arm tucked close to his body.

"Left shoulder's the bad one?" Peter asked.

"Yeah," Neal said through tightly clenched teeth. "Got rammed into a wall somewhere along the way."

Peter put a hand under Neal's right elbow and one under his right leg to help lift him up. "Watch your head," he warned; even though Neal was a little shorter than he was, he didn't want him banging his head on that low ceiling. Neal sucked in a harsh breath as Peter helped him stand.

Once Neal was vertical, Peter slipped an arm around his waist, fighting the urge to flinch at the heat that seemed to be radiating from him. Shit. Neal was trembling even harder now as he struggled to balance himself.

"Whoa," Neal mumbled, closing his eyes and swaying. "Dizzy. Need a minute."

"Take your time."

"Okay," Neal said a few seconds later. "Let's go." But after the first step, his right leg gave out; he would have fallen if not for Peter's firm grip. Neal hissed in pain. "Damnit. My leg is . . . messed up."

"That, uh, wasn't on the list," Peter observed delicately, careful to keep the accusation out of his voice.

"I know, yeah, I forgot." Neal sounded genuinely guilty. "Sorry 'bout that. It's been—I don't know, a while since I tried to stand."

_Yes, because he'd been chained to the fucking floor._ Peter swallowed down fresh rage. He had to ask. "How long—have you been down here the whole time?"

"Not the whole time. The first few days they . . . they kept me upstairs, I think." His voice caught and Peter knew he was remembering something he didn't want to think about. "And for a while I was in a room where they had me do the forgeries." He turned his head to look at Peter. "You found'em, right?"

"Matisse's _Young Sailor I _and _Young Sailor II," _Peter replied instantly. "Each one with a small _C _and an _H _hidden in the pants of the sailor. Very subtle."

Neal smiled faintly. "I hoped it wasn't _too _subtle. At first I tried slipping an _NC _in there, but they found it and . . ." the smile faded and he looked away, clearing his throat, which led to another bout of coughing. When he could speak, he said, "I couldn't take a chance on that happening again. They were examining everything too closely. I thought, if you happened to come across it somehow, that you might recognize the callback to our first case. Or—I hoped you would."

"First thought was that Hagen had done them before he died," Peter admitted. "Then we brought Mozzie in—he'd gotten wind of one of the pieces coming on the market. We realized it was good enough to be one of yours and that it might be a signal from you. Mozzie helped from there. They were good, though," he added. "Our authenticator said they were some of the best forgeries he'd ever seen."

"I would hope so," Neal said, and in his tone, Peter could hear just a hint of Neal's customary smugness whenever his work was discussed. For Peter, it was comforting, somehow, to hear it, to know that, whatever else might be damaged, that part of Neal was still intact.

Neal let out a long, ragged breath and started moving again. "Wait a minute. _Authenticator,_ you said? Uh oh. I've been replaced."

"Hardly," Peter scoffed. "Temporary only."

"Good to know. Anyway, they kept me upstairs for a while. 'Til I picked the lock and tried to run one too many times. Which got them very pissed them off."

And probably had earned Neal some of the bruises he sported, Peter thought.

"Eventually, I just got to the point where I was trying to be the biggest pain in the ass I could," Neal continued.

"You look like you succeeded," Peter muttered, before he'd thought about it, then winced at how callous the remark sounded. Neal's condition was nothing to joke about.

But Neal wasn't offended—far from it. Instead, he stopped walking, let his head fall back a little and laughed. "Ohhh, Peter. Did I mention that I've missed you?"

"You didn't," Peter replied. "Not something you would normally admit to."

"Yeah," Neal sighed, "we better keep it just between us." He shot a sidelong glance at Peter that was meant to be teasing, and Peter smiled back. Inwardly, though, he was anxious. They weren't making much progress toward the stairs, and Neal's energy was flagging. Peter didn't know if he should be trying to encourage Neal to keep moving—or to just admit defeat and get him back down to the floor.

"Look, if you need to sit down," he tried, "then we'll do it. Or you could just let me—"

Captivity and privation had not, apparently, dulled Neal's ability to read Peter's mind. "Oh, no, you don't, Peter. One of the things I thought about a lot—if I made it out . . . ." Neal's voice died out before he completed the thought.

"What?" Peter prompted, adjusting his arm to get a better grip on Neal's waist. "What were you thinking about?"

"Was _really_ hoping," Neal muttered, "n—not to have to be carried out of here."

Peter understood and appreciated the sentiment, but he was starting to wonder if there was any way to get Neal out of here that _didn't _involve him being carried. Then Neal said, "Okay, let's go," and began walking once more—well, it was more like hopping_, _since he was trying not to put much weight on his right leg_—_doggedly toward the stairs.

"This hurts like holy hell," Neal said, enunciating each word with excessive clarity through a tightly clenched jaw. Now he was stopping to rest in between each small step. "See? You wanted honesty, Peter. Hope you're proud of me."

"It's a whole new you," Peter agreed. Neal tried to laugh, but ended up gasping instead.

There was no point in _I told you so_'_s _now. "You're doing great, we're almost there," Peter said in the most encouraging tone he could muster. Even though they still had quite a ways to go to reach the steps. His own back and neck were starting to ache from stooping over.

"Mmm," Neal said. Peter could tell he was trying to ignore the pain, to distract himself. "What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Thursday?" Neal sounded confused. "But they took me on—on a Monday—" he broke off. "Hold on. Of which week?"

Peter sighed. "It was seven weeks this past Monday that you were taken."

"_Seven weeks?_" Neal jerked to a stop, breathing hard. His anger, finally spilling out, was like a living thing, thick and violent, filling the room around them and bouncing off the walls. His body tensed and shook under Peter's hold. "No, almost _eight_ weeks. You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Peter's heart stuttered in his chest. "We looked for you, Neal." The bitter sense of failure, the guilt that had dogged him every day of the search, that had become a kind of physical pain, flared up inside him once again. "Every day. We tried—"

"I knew it was a while," Neal muttered, like he hadn't heard. He sagged a little in Peter's grip, as if what little strength he had left had suddenly vanished. "But _my God_ . . . ." The rage had leached out of his voice, replaced with something jagged and broken that sounded like despair.

Hearing it, Peter much preferred the rage.

Neal took a deep breath, as if gathering himself. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet with forced calm. "It's just that . . . you can't keep track of time when you can't hear or see or . . . ."

"Neal, I know and I'm sorry—"

"Jesus, Peter, stop apologizing. I'm not mad at _you—" _Neal took another step and broke off with a stifled cry.

"What?" _I shouldn't have let him do this,_ Peter thought, stricken. _I should have made him wait—_

"Cramp," Neal muttered through gritted teeth. "That's all. From sitting in one place too long. Just—just give me a minute . . . ." He grabbed at his left thigh, kneading the muscle and groaning as he leaned heavily on Peter.

"Can I help?"

"Just keep doing . . . what you're doing," Neal managed, panting. What Peter was doing was nothing—well, beyond supporting Neal—but maybe, he realized, that was enough after all.

A moment later Neal started moving again and soon they were there. Well, at the bottom of the stairs, which now looked terrifyingly steep to Peter's eyes—and which were too narrow for the two of them to fit. Hell, they were so rusty that Peter was afraid the structure might not even support both of them at the same time, anyway. To make things worse, there was no railing there, nothing for Neal to hold onto. Keeping his left arm slung tightly around Neal's waist, he looked up at Jones' face, seeing his own concern reflected there.

"Neal," he began, "I don't know—"

"I do. You stay on this side, Peter." Taking charge, Neal steadied himself and waved his right hand, exuding a kind of shaky confidence. "I'm gonna go up and you can be my railing. Help me balance."

_This seems like a bad idea, _Peter thought—the kind of alarming recklessness his CI specialized in—but Neal was resolute and Peter sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to say no to anything he wanted right now. So he did as instructed, stepping to the side of the stairs, staying on Neal's right. "Okay, I can be here for the bottom part. Clinton, you help him from up there when he gets closer, okay?" Jones nodded, already perched above with his arms outstretched. If he thought this was a foolhardy thing to be attempting, his face gave no sign. Then again, Jones had always been mostly inscrutable.

"Good. Let's do this," Neal said. As if sensing Peter's apprehension, he made eye contact and held Peter's gaze for a long moment. "Right?" The unflinching determination on his face in that moment took Peter's breath away.

"Right. We're doing this," Peter confirmed, eyes still locked onto Neal's. He was rewarded with that dazzling, cocky grin that was pure Neal Caffrey. Even amidst the blood and bruises, it looked good on Neal, and a little bit of the tension in Peter's chest lifted at the sight.

"Time to get the hell out of here," Neal proclaimed. His voice was hoarse, but he was still grinning. He took a death grip on Peter's arm with his right hand and started to climb, one laborious step at a time. The stairs creaked loudly, and Peter sent up a prayer that they wouldn't buckle under Neal's weight. If Neal noticed this, he gave no outward indication. As he focused on each step, the muscles in his jaw were tight and his teeth gritted. His useless left arm was pressed against his body and he kept most of his weight on his left foot. But he didn't waver or make a sound. And he didn't stop.

Watching him, Peter could feel his anxiety giving way to a sense of awe. Neal had been through an unimaginable ordeal. He'd been abused and injured in ways Peter could only guess at, and he should be on a stretcher right now. Instead, drawing on some hidden reserve of strength, he was climbing those stairs. He was leaving this dungeon with his head held high, under his own power. Sheer willpower, really, and Peter could only stand there and silently admire the hell out of it.

As Neal ascended, Peter could no longer reach his arm. He had to be satisfied with keeping both hands on Neal's side and then his right leg, trying to help him balance. If anything happened, if Neal fell, Peter didn't know how much help he'd be, but at least he was as close as he could be. Looking up, he could see Neal's back for the first time, and his breath froze in his throat at the sight of dark red streaks and blotches on the back of his shirt. His back was bleeding—or had been bleeding, more likely, Peter realized; the stains looked old. Dry. Then he remembered Neal's casual-sounding comment from earlier. _"My back's a little sore, that's all."_

_From being beaten bloody, apparently. _Peter concentrated on staying calm, on keeping his breaths even, on pushing down the tide of impotent hatred that was making his blood boil in his veins.

When Neal finally made it to where Jones stood, Peter let out a sigh of relief. Jones got his arms around Neal to pull him out bodily, and Peter heard a smattering of applause and welcoming whoops from nearby agents as Neal disappeared from his view. He clambered up the stairs to find Jones and Diana on either side of Neal, easing him to the ground. Peter scanned the room and frowned; no paramedics, yet. Most of the nearby agents were quietly moving away, taking the techs with them. Peter's heart swelled a little at the sight; it was a small but caring gesture by the team, trying to give Neal some much-needed privacy in the moment.

In the brighter light of the warehouse—Neal blinked furiously, then kept his eyes half-closed as if to shield them—the bruises on Neal's face were starkly livid and his pallor accentuated. You could see how prominent his cheekbones were, see how terribly thin he was, see the near-translucence of his skin. He'd been down there for a long time, Peter surmised. His own fury was rising again. Neal had been kept like an animal—no, most animals had better conditions than this. Most animals weren't chained to the floor, kept without heat or light or food or water—

"Think I . . . need a break," Neal mumbled. His eyes had fallen shut and he started listing to the side. "Thirsty."

Quickly Diana plopped down next to him, letting Neal slump against her. She held an uncapped bottle of water out to him and then, realizing he couldn't see it, brushed it lightly against his hand. "Here you go, Neal." Peter could see her face tighten with concern as she felt how hot he was to the touch. She shot a worried glance up at Peter; he shook his head grimly.

"Hey, Diana," Neal said, cracking an eye open to look at her. One side of his mouth curved up into a crooked smile. He took the bottle and drank, sighing in pleasure. "Thanks."

"Any time. You've been gone long enough that I actually missed you annoying me every day." Her smile was warm.

"Ha. Doubt that," he said and drank some more before letting the hand holding the bottle fall away from his mouth. His fingers loosened and Diana took the water before it slipped from his grasp. "Or maybe it's true. Cause you're letting me snuggle with you. In public."

"Oh, this is not snuggling, Caffrey," she said, mock-threatening, but when Neal shifted, she put an anchoring arm around him and pulled him a little closer. Jones grabbed the blanket from where it had fallen and Diana lifted her arm momentarily so Jones could spread it over Neal's shoulders. Peter saw the look of revulsion on both their faces—and the horrified look they exchanged over Neal's head—as they caught sight of the bloodstains that had soaked through the back of his shirt.

"Peter . . . ." Jones said, voice thick with emotion, and then stopped as if at a loss for words. Peter nodded curtly in silent, angry acknowledgment.

"Thanks," Neal muttered, oblivious to it all.

Peter knelt next to them. "How are you feeling now, Neal?"

Neal blinked at him, eyes looking just a bit unfocused. "Tired. Cold. Dizzy."

Peter was about to suggest they lay him down on the ground and cover him with their jackets when the medical team arrived. The two medics introduced themselves as Ryan and Natalie.

He told them what he knew of Neal's injuries and let them take over. After some conversation with Neal, who seemed increasingly out of it, they helped him into a sitting position on the gurney with his feet on the floor. They took his blood pressure and put a pulse ox monitor on a finger.

The female medic laid a gentle hand on Neal's knee. "We're going to help you lie down, now."

Neal ignored her. "Can I have some more water?" he asked plaintively. Diana was ready with the bottle of water.

"Small sips, okay, Mr. Caffrey?" the male paramedic said.

He drank some more, silently, and then seemed to lose interest, head starting to tip forward as if it was too heavy for him to hold up anymore. Diana took the bottle back. Neal's eyelids fluttered, then closed. He was limp and unresisting as they lifted his legs and turned his body to lay him gently on the gurney. Ryan covered him with blankets and then Natalie belted him in securely.

It must have been the straps that did it. Neal's eyes flew open and his body jerked sharply as he cried out, gaze darting wildly around the room. "No! No, don't—"

"It's okay, Mr. Caffrey. You're fine. We're just getting you ready for the ride to the hospital, okay?" Natalie's voice was soothing as she shot a quick glance at Peter.

Peter spoke up quickly; Neal didn't seem to have heard her. "Neal. You're okay. You're safe."

Neal's eyes widened in surprise as he gazed upward. "Peter?"

"Over here," Peter said, touching Neal's good shoulder. Neal turned his head and exhaled in relief, as if catching sight of Peter for the first time. "You're here," he whispered. "You found me."

"Of course I did," Peter said fondly, giving his shoulder a very light squeeze. That got a little grin out of Neal.

"Oh, right," Neal said, looking abashed. "I knew that. Just forgot for a minute . . . ."

"It's okay," Peter assured him. "You've, uh, been under a lot of stress." Neal's glimmer of a smile—delayed, but it was there—told Peter he remembered their earlier conversation.

"We're ready to transport him now, Agent Burke."

Peter let go, but walked alongside as the gurney was wheeled toward the door. Neal was staring at the ceiling, an oddly vacant look in his eyes. Somehow he managed to work a hand free from under the blanket and waved it in the air.

"Peter?"

"Right here." Peter slid his hand over top of Neal's, registering again how warm it was. "What is it?"

Neal's eyes tracked over to Peter's face. "I didn't thank you."

Peter rolled his eyes; he wasn't sure if Neal caught it or not. "That's because you don't have to."

Neal's fingers tightened around his, the grip surprisingly strong. The gratitude in his eyes was so raw it was almost painful to look at it. "Thank you, Peter. For looking for me. For—for finding me."

"You're welcome, but it's not like I really had a choice," Peter joked. At Neal's blank look, he clarified, "I've got a reputation to uphold. What am I now—four-and-oh?"

He watched realization dawn on Neal's face, followed by a goofy grin that was the best thing Peter had seen in a very long time. "Still keeping score, huh?" Neal managed.

"Always," Peter assured him, his voice mock-serious.

"Hey, you comin'?" Neal's eyelids were fluttering again, his words just slightly slurred.

"To the hospital? Of course."

"Thass good. Thought you'd have to leave. Hafta . . . get back."

"Where would I go?" Peter asked, smiling. But Neal had drifted off.

Only later, when Peter was in the car on the way to the hospital, recounting the tale to a jubilant Elizabeth, and then to Mozzie, did he realize what Neal had meant. He'd thought Peter had to leave to go back to DC. He thought that was where Peter was now.

When Neal was feeling better, Peter thought, the two of them needed to have a very long talk.

_TBC_

_A/N – I hope the reunion was satisfying (I know some of you were worried that it wouldn't be!) Please know that every reader is appreciated and every comment treasured. Thanks for reading! _


	4. Choices

A Chance to Be Better

…..

Chapter Four – Choices

"_True character is revealed in the choices a human being makes under pressure - the greater the pressure, the deeper the revelation, the truer the choice to the . . . essential nature."  
>― Robert McKee<em>

* * *

><p><em>AN—Well, here we are; this is the first chapter to be posted after the season six premiere. Did you know that this story was supposed to be posted before season six aired? It was. But then USA Network threw me a curve ball by deciding to bring the show back in November, meaning that I ran out of time. So what can I say—we are now officially non-canon compliant from this point (well, except for upcoming references to season five, etc.). Not that this story was ever going to be canon-compliant anyway . . . ;-)_

* * *

><p>The first real chance for Peter to have that much-needed talk with Neal didn't happen right away.<p>

When he arrived at the hospital, Neal had already been whisked away, leaving Peter to wait. He filled out paperwork, and then got a brief visit with Neal, who seemed happy to see him, but also a bit confused. Peter was in the midst of trying to reassure him, when, just like that, they were taking Neal away and ushering Peter back out to the waiting room. From there, he mainly occupied himself with worrying and taking calls from Jones and Diana, while receiving occasional updates on what the doctors were doing—drawing blood, running tests, doing X-rays and CT scans.

About forty-five minutes after he'd gotten to the hospital, Peter's phone buzzed again. He saw who it was and winced. He should have called her.

"Hi, Tonya. I take it you heard the news."

"You found him, Peter," Agent Tonya Metcalfe said, her usually calm voice alive with an elation Peter had never heard from her. "Not that I'm surprised, given your track record."

Peter allowed himself a brief, private smile. "Yeah, we found him. Look, I'm sorry. I can't believe I didn't call you."

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "Neal is the priority right now. Agent Berrigan called with the good news while you were on the way to the hospital. How's he doing?"

Once Neal had been officially reclassified as a kidnapping victim and not a fugitive. Peter had asked for Tonya Metcalfe to consult on Neal's case. The task of finding his CI was Peter's, first and foremost, and delegating it to anyone else was inconceivable. But at the same time, Neal was a valued member of the Bureau team and deserved the full panoply of Bureau resources, which, in a kidnapping case, meant the Missing Persons unit. It wasn't so much that Peter felt he needed the help, but more that Neal deserved it. Peter was determined to leave no stone unturned, so he asked for their assistance.

He'd known Tonya more by reputation than by any personal connection, but what he'd heard was damned impressive. A few years older than Peter, she was one of the top agents in Missing Persons, and she'd proven it by providing valuable advice and a consistent sounding board for Peter throughout the search for Neal. She'd helped to keep his spirits up, too, when doubt and despair threatened to take hold. There were agents in the Bureau who might have been less motivated to work on the case, given Neal's background (and some lingering doubts about the nature of his disappearance). Peter had certainly dealt with a few of those types over the years. But Tonya Metcalfe was not one of them.

She'd turned down the chance to participate in the warehouse raid, though. "That's for you and your team, Peter," Tonya had said. "You don't need me there, and neither does Neal. I'd like to meet him sometime, though."

She'd get the chance now, thank God. "He's . . . been through hell, Tonya. He's in bad shape. I don't know just how bad yet, but . . . ."

When he didn't continue, she said, softly, "Diana told me. She said seeing the conditions he was kept in is going to give her nightmares tonight. But she also said Neal walked out on his own two feet."

"He did," Peter confirmed. "Not sure _how _he managed it, but he did."

"He's resilient, and based on what you've told me about him, it's not surprising. Which is a good thing," she said. "Because he's going to have to rely on that for a while longer, while he's recovering. Are you with him now?"

"No, I got to see him for a few minutes, but they had to take him away for more tests."

"He's being admitted?"

"I'd have to think so, but no one's been out to speak with me yet," Peter said, glancing at his watch. He hadn't realized how much time had passed and eyed the nurses' desk in frustration. "I wonder if I could get anywhere by going up there and flashing my badge at them."

Tonya laughed. "ER nurses? No way, Peter. You need to go for the sympathy angle with those folks. In my experience, you could be the FBI director and they wouldn't be intimidated."

"I knew there was a reason I wanted you on this case," Peter answered wryly.

"Is anyone with you?"

"No, there's enough work to do coming out of the raid. We don't need any more people sitting around at the hospital."

"Want some company?"

"What? No, no." He must sound awful. Or maybe not, he considered. That was just the kind of person Tonya was. She was the rare FBI agent who had a background in counseling, and compassion was instinctive for her. "I'm fine. It's just waiting."

"And what's a little more of that, after seven weeks?" she said, literally echoing the words that were in Peter's mind, which made him chuckle.

Just then, a burly nurse in dark blue scrubs called from the front of the room, "Neal Caffrey?"

"They're calling me. I gotta go, Tonya," he said, jumping to his feet.

"Okay, Peter, call me when you can. Also, please try to get some sleep tonight, all right? You've earned it."

"Will do, thanks," he said, ending the conversation and muting the phone as he stopped in front of the nurse. "I'm Special Agent Burke, here with Neal Caffrey."

The nurse—his ID said Brian—nodded at Peter. "Yes, sir. Please follow me."

Peter followed him through the double-doors and into the hallway that led to the ER cubicles. He started heading back to where he'd last seen Neal, but the nurse put a hand on his arm. "No, Agent Burke, this way."

Peter turned and nearly ran into a short, dark-haired man wearing a white coat, glasses, and a serious expression. He also looked way the hell too young to be a doctor. "You're Special Agent Burke? I'm Dr. David Gallo." He shook Peter's hand and gestured down the hallway. "I've been supervising Mr. Caffrey's care here in the ER. Why don't we talk in here."

A fresh wave of anxiety rippled through Peter's chest. Did this mean something bad had happened? Neal had collapsed so quickly after making it out, maybe he really had aggravated his injuries, as Peter had feared. Maybe—

Gallo had an energy Peter envied. He walked briskly down the hall with a bounce in his step, Peter right behind, and opened a door to a small office. Inside, the doctor perched on the stool and Peter sat in one of the chairs, facing him.

"I thought, under the circumstances," Gallo began, his dark eyes intent on Peter's, "that a little privacy would be best. I've already talked with Mr. Caffrey; he's sleeping at the moment."

Peter nodded.

"First, I should say that when our staff told Mr. Caffrey that you were here to see him, he described you as his . . ." Gallo flipped through some papers, looking for it, "former partner."

Rather than trying to explain the situation (and possibly calling into question Neal's mental state), Peter said quickly, "I have his medical authorization paperwork, doctor. It should have been faxed over."

"Oh, it was. But, of course, we're required to ask any conscious patient if we're permitted to discuss his condition with third parties. Mr. Caffrey said I wouldn't have a choice about telling you." The doctor smiled faintly. "I assured him that under HIPAA there most definitely is a choice. When he realized we were quite serious, he said, _Tell Peter everything. Otherwise he might have a stroke."_

As grim as the situation was, Peter couldn't help smiling at that.

"So I will, as Mr. Caffrey directed, tell you everything." Gallo fixed Peter with a steady, sober gaze and sighed. "Agent Burke, I would never, ever say that anyone in Mr. Caffrey's position was lucky. What I will say is that, given what I understand of his confinement, it could have been worse."

Peter let out a breath as the doctor continued.

"I don't want to downplay the severity of his condition. Mr. Caffrey has a number of serious medical issues that will require treatment. But none of those are life-threatening or life-changing. He'll need time and we'll be admitting him to make sure he gets the care he needs, but he should recover."

"I'll start with the respiratory issue. He had a pretty consistent cough; that and his lung sounds led me to order some tests. The chest X-ray confirmed that Mr. Caffrey has pneumonia. Malnutrition could have made him more susceptible, or fungal conditions where he was being held. Either way, his bloodwork will tell us what we're dealing with and we'll use IV antibiotics to treat it."

"Mr. Caffrey wasn't sure when he ate last, but he shows some obvious signs of malnutrition, and he indicated that he was fed infrequently and poorly. He mentioned nuts and . . ." Gallo went to the second page of the chart, "candy bars as being primary dietary components?" Gallo frowned as he looked up at Peter. "Based on what he told us about his previous weight, he's lost about fifteen pounds."

Peter swallowed. "He looks like it."

Gallo nodded agreement. "We'll get him back to where he was, but it can be a bit tricky. Even though he's been essentially starved for the better part of eight weeks, he may not be especially eager to eat. The body adapts to the scarcity of nutrients—the stomach shrinks, the metabolism slows—and these things tend to diminish appetite. It's critical that he eat, of course, but we have to make sure we don't create digestive problems while he readjusts. We've started him on IV nutrients just until he's awake and able to eat, which should be tomorrow. After that, we stick with a bland, high-calorie diet and mostly soft foods at first, so we can ease him back into normal eating habits without causing too much of a shock to his system. There are quite a few protein shakes in Mr. Caffrey's immediate future. But he does need to eat, and he may need some . . . gentle pushing on that score, so . . ."

"He'll eat," Peter said grimly. "I'll make sure of it. We all will."

The doctor smiled at him. "That's good. We don't want to have to resort to IV nutrients any longer than absolutely necessary. Now, on to other matters . . . let's see . . . fluids. He's severely dehydrated. That, along with the infections he's picked up, resulted in a fever of 103.9 when he arrived here. It's down a bit, but still 103 at last check. He'll need IV antibiotics and fluids for the time being, until we're satisfied that his electrolytes and blood work are within normal range and that the infections are no longer a concern."

Gallo took a pen out of his jacket pocket and made a quick note on the chart.

"From a purely physiological standpoint, the traumatic injuries he's sustained are less of a concern than these more chronic conditions that I've just described, but he does have some injuries as well. None of those are major. Mr. Caffrey complained of shoulder pain and limited range of motion in his left arm, and he had some visible swelling."

_Got rammed into a wall, _Neal had said.

"I suspected a shoulder separation, but just to be on the safe side, we X-rayed it to rule out a broken collarbone. Turns out his left shoulder is separated, but fortunately, it's mild, meaning the ligaments are torn, not stretched, so he won't need surgery."

"What about a sling?" Peter asked. He'd separated a shoulder trying to break up a double play once and remembered having to use one.

"I think an immobilizer would be best," Gallo agreed, "given that it's gone untreated for some time. Keeping that arm in a sling for a while will help reduce stress on the joint. Later on, there are some stretching and strengthening exercises he can do."

Peter nodded.

"He also has considerable swelling in his right knee. We were concerned we might be dealing with a fractured kneecap, but the X-rays didn't show a break, so what we've got is just some very severe bruising. We drained the fluid and will use cold packs to help reduce the swelling. He may want to use a cane for a while to help lessen the pain while walking. It's going to hurt to put weight on it for a while."

The doctor paused, reading from the clipboard he held.

"He refused a rape kit, said he didn't need it." Gallo paused. "He denied any incidence of sexual assault."

Peter let out a breath. He only hoped that was true.

"He did permit a quick rectal exam which showed no signs of trauma." Gallo cleared his throat. "My examination of Mr. Caffrey's back, however, revealed wounds that indicated he'd been struck multiple times with some sort of thin implement."

"He was whipped." Peter heard himself saying the words he'd been thinking ever since he'd seen the blood on the back of Neal's shirt. He fought to keep his expression from betraying the revulsion he was feeling.

"I'm afraid so," Gallo said, looking uncomfortable. "It could have been a whip or—or an electrical cord. Something like that. One bit of positive news," he added quickly, "is that, while there were quite a few marks, the skin was only broken twice and he appears to have been given some rudimentary first aid. Those wounds are, I would guess, several weeks old, but there's no infection and the area is actually healing quite nicely. I think the scarring will be minimal."

_Small mercy, _Peter thought, a ball of molten fury congealing in his gut.

"There were also a few burns on his chest," Gallo said, dark eyes fixed on Peter's and filled with sympathy. "I'd say, from a Taser, most likely. Again, those are old and are already healing; they won't require any further treatment from us, except some salve. And he has some deep bruising on his face, chest and abdomen—he was struck with fists and likely a blunt object, which resulted in bruised ribs, but fortunately nothing was broken and there's no internal bleeding to contend with. We cleaned and stitched the cut on his forehead, also, which was infected."

"We asked questions about how he sustained some of the injuries, for example, the bruising around his neck, but he wasn't particularly forthcoming. I didn't press him; I imagine that's something you will be discussing with him at some point."

"When he's ready."

Gallo nodded. "Oh, also, per procedure in a criminal case, all of the injuries were photographed for evidentiary purposes." He hesitated before continuing. "Lastly, I would recommend a psych consult for any patient who's experienced this sort of trauma. I didn't address it with Mr. Caffrey, but I wanted you to know that I'm going to place that on his chart."

"Of course," Peter said.

"I take it you know him well?" Gallo asked.

"Very."

Gallo eyed him speculatively. "Do you think he'll be amenable to that?"

"Probably not," Peter admitted. "But he'll have to submit to a psych eval before he can come back to work."

"Well, that's good, but he won't be returning to work for quite some time," the doctor remarked. "I'm concerned about his . . . mental state in the meantime."

Peter nodded; the short term mattered more than the long at the moment. "We need to get him whatever help he needs."

The doctor looked satisfied. "We can't force him to speak with someone, as you know. But we'll make sure he has the opportunity. Now, what questions do you have for me?"

Peter was still a little numb at the sheer quantity of injuries Neal had sustained, but he gathered himself enough to ask some basic questions about potential complications and treatment timelines. Even though he had the feeling that he wouldn't remember much about the answers later. His brain felt like it was on overload, somehow, and now all he really wanted was to see Neal.

Then Gallo was up and shaking Peter's hand, and looking deep into his eyes again with that piercing gaze. "If you don't mind my asking, have you apprehended the . . . the people who did this?"

"I don't mind," Peter said. "And not yet. But we will." His tone was a promise.

Gallo acknowledged that with a grim nod. "At the risk of sounding unprofessional, I think prison would be too good for them."

Peter could not have agreed more.

* * *

><p>Gallo was right: Neal's injuries were . . . well, there was no doubt they could have been worse. He hadn't been shot or stabbed or permanently injured—all things Peter had feared. Then again, the nature of Neal's injuries was no coincidence, Peter knew. His captors couldn't risk damaging him to the point where he wasn't useful to them. So they'd inflicted the maximum amount of pain, probably to keep Neal in line, while making sure they didn't hurt him so much that he couldn't work.<p>

Neal would be in a lot of pain for a while, but he'd recover, and Peter knew he should be glad about that. Yet, every time Peter thought about the abuse his partner had suffered, about how long Neal had endured the unimaginable, it filled him with a combination of rage and anguish. There was a chance that Neal wouldn't ever be the same, and knowing that made Peter feel sick.

It was another half-hour before he allowed back to Neal's bedside, and by then his CI was well-medicated, hooked up to various machines, monitors and IVs, and sleeping. His left arm was encased in a sling and the cut along his hairline had been bandaged. The blackened, swollen right eye and the bruises on his face and neck stood out starkly in the bright lights of the ER cubicle. Between those, the long hair, and the unkempt beard, Neal was barely recognizable.

Peter stayed with Neal while they waited for a bed to become available. Mainly because leaving was just completely out of the question. As the hours passed, Neal mostly slept, but not always, and when he did wake up, he was disoriented, sometimes on the verge of panic. Each time, Peter was there, his heart in his throat at the sight of Neal, thrashing on the narrow bed, eyes glassy and yet wide with fear. Each time Peter was there to reassure him that he was okay, that he was safe. He'd take Neal's hand—he'd realized after the second time that Neal responded more quickly to Peter's touch than to his voice. Neal would look around, see Peter, and understand that he was in a hospital, that he'd been freed. Slowly, his body would relax: after a few minutes his eyes would fall shut and he'd be sleeping once more. Then the process would be repeated an hour or so later. Seeing Neal that vulnerable, that afraid, filled Peter with horror. Now, having heard the specifics of Neal's injuries, he had a sense of what he'd had endured to make him react that violently, but Peter's mind still shrank from contemplating it.

Finally Neal was moved to a regular room—a private one, fortunately—given a stronger dose of medicine, and fell into a deeper sleep.

"He's going to rest now, Agent Burke," the nurse said when she came back in to check on Neal a few minutes after getting him settled in. "Why don't you go home, get some rest and come back fresh in the morning?"

Peter appreciated her concern, but he didn't follow her advice—not right away. Instead, he waited a while longer, spending most of that time watching Neal to make sure he stayed asleep. If there was a chance of Neal waking up, of a repeat of his earlier panic, Peter would be there. He ignored the accusing voice in the back of his mind that said _do you think this makes up for the_ p_ast eight weeks, for all the times Neal needed you and you weren't there?_

He ignored the voice because it was right. Because nothing would ever make up for that.

He pulled out his phone and texted Jones and Diana that Neal was okay and resting. He also texted Tonya.

_Wanted to give you an update. Neal's in a room finally. _

_That's good. Sleeping?_

_Oh, yes. _

_He's OK for now?_

Peter sighed. Tonya knew better than to ask simply, _is he OK? _ _Too many injuries to list, _he answered, _but yeah. Nothing broken, no surgery needed, which is at least something positive._

_VERY, _was Tonya's firm response. _Take the good where you can find it. _Then, a moment later, _You should go home and get some sleep. _Again, she knew without being told where Peter was.

_Good advice, as usual, _he typed back. _I will, once I know he's settled in. Good night, Tonya._

_Good night, Peter._

Back in the ER, Neal had woken up, by Peter's count, about once an hour, on average. So, now, when Neal had slept for a solid ninety minutes without so much as even stirring, Peter decided it was safe to leave. He said goodbyes to the nurses on duty—he had a feeling he'd be seeing a lot of them over the next few days—and dragged himself out to the parking garage. On the drive home, he dialed El. She'd made him promise to call her back and he felt guilty that he hadn't done it before now.

He told her about Neal's injuries—well, the broad strokes. Some things he couldn't bring himself to describe just yet, so he was deliberately vague about a lot of it. But Elizabeth was smart enough to know just from the tone of his voice that her husband wasn't telling her everything. When he'd finished, there was a long pause before El finally said, "God, Peter. Poor Neal. It sounds awful. I just—I can't even imagine him going through that."

"He looks like he went through hell," Peter said grimly, "and I'm pretty sure we don't even know the half of it yet. And yet, I was so proud of him, El. He was beaten and bloody and feverish, shaking like a leaf, but damned if he didn't walk out of there. He told me that was what he'd been thinking about, all that time, and he did it."

"He's tougher than he looks," Elizabeth said. "Tougher than he lets on. I've always thought that."

Peter agreed. For all his gifts, for all that he sometimes seemed to lead a charmed life, the truth was that Neal had suffered a shocking amount of tragedy just over the last few years—on top of a childhood that was probably a lot more troubled than Neal would ever admit. But he'd survived—and even, for the most part, thrived.

"Did you tell him that?"

Peter hit the brakes, frowning as a couple of teenagers ran in front of the car. "Tell him what?"

"That you're proud of him."

"Oh," Peter said, resisting the urge to honk at the jaywalkers. "Well, no. I didn't really get a chance."

"Tell him, Peter," she said. "When you can. He's going to need support, and I know how much it will mean to him that you feel that way. When he feels . . . broken, he'll need to be reminded of just how strong he is."

"I will," Peter promised. It wasn't that he didn't realize that, but El had a way of crystallizing it that made it seem so obvious.

She let out a long, dejected sigh. "Oh, Peter, I'm so—I mean, I'm happy, so happy, but this just—it isn't right."

"What do you mean?"

"I should be there," she said, sounding choked up. "I should have _been _there. While this was going on, while you were . . . dealing with everything. For weeks, I've been thinking how much I hate that you've been alone. I wish I was there with you right now."

Peter took a deep breath, because in all the time El had been gone, he'd never heard that note of longing in her voice when she talked about being back in New York. He filed it away to think about later, to consider what it might mean.

But for now, he answered honestly. "So do I. I wish you were here, too, El." He didn't voice that emotion very often, because he had sworn to himself that he would never make her feel guilty for the choice she'd made. _He _was the one who'd made a last-minute decision to stay; their separation was his fault, not hers. But right now, it sounded as if she needed him as much as he needed her, so he said the words. His heart hurt knowing that they couldn't hold each other, couldn't comfort each other the way they would if they were together.

"You know, I could make a quick trip up this weekend—"

"But you've got that big opening on Saturday night." It was all she'd been talking about—and worrying about—for the past week.

"Well, yes, but I could come up tomorrow and then get back here Saturday morning, and—"

"No," he said, gently but firmly. "Not now. I know how much you've been stressing about this event. Trying to jam a trip to New York in the middle of it will only make it worse. You can come up in a few days; Neal should feel more like having company then, anyway." He had a feeling, too, that Neal would want to spare her the sight of him in his current state. Peter certainly did.

"Well, if you think so," she said hesitantly.

"Hon, it's not that I don't want you here. You know that. But it just makes more sense for you to come later."

"Okay. I will." Elizabeth let out a long sigh. "Did I mention that I love you, Peter Burke?"

"Hmm, let's see," he said, smiling as he pretended to mull it over. "Not during this conversation."

"Then I need to remedy that immediately. I love you, Peter Burke."

"And I love you, Elizabeth Burke."

He stumbled into the house and did the bare minimum necessary before falling into bed. The house was still empty and quiet, but that night, it didn't matter in the slightest. Neal was alive, he was safe, and that was all that mattered now. For the first time in nearly two months, Peter thought, he would sleep without dreaming.

He was wrong. He still dreamed of the things he'd forced his waking mind not to dwell on, but now they were more specific. Now his subconscious mind supplied images of Neal begging for water. Of Neal being whipped. Of Neal flinching away from his touch. Of the various horrible ways Neal could have gotten those bruises around his neck.

It was a long night.

* * *

><p>Neal slept most of the next day, too. They had a short conversation when Peter came by in the morning, but Neal wasn't making much sense—he was kind of adorably out of it, still heavily medicated, clearly—and he drifted off soon after Peter arrived, so Peter didn't stay long. He headed to the office to join in the work of reviewing the evidence from yesterday and finding Neal's kidnappers. During the day, Mozzie and June went to see Neal, and both reported to Peter that he'd had mostly slept through their visits, too. The nurses Peter spoke with confirmed that he was doing well—sleeping a lot, eating a little.<p>

When Peter stopped by after work, the nurse was checking Neal's vitals. He seemed to be more awake. Peter was pleased to see that his hair was clean and the scraggly, un-Neal-like beard had been shaved, though that only seemed to accentuate how painfully thin and drawn his face was.

Neal beamed at him. "Hi, Peter!"

Definitely still on the good stuff, Peter decided. "Hi, Neal. Good to see you awake this time."

"Huh," Neal said, looking perturbed. "Were—you were here before?"

"This morning," Peter replied. "I guess you don't remember."

"Oh, no. Sorry about that."

Peter put on his most reassuring smile, because Neal really did seem to be dismayed at this news. "It's not a problem, Neal. You were sleeping and that's okay."

"He's right," the nurse said briskly, patting Neal's arm. "And Neal drank all of his protein shakes today, Agent Burke, so it's been a good day." She smiled at both of them as she left. Neal watched her go with a slightly vacant look in his eye, before returning his gaze to Peter.

"See?" Peter said. "You heard the woman. You need to rest."

"Oh, I need a _lot _of things, Peter," Neal said with a loopy earnestness that made Peter want to laugh. "Like a haircut. I mean, look." He ran a hand dramatically through hair that was messy and longer than Peter had ever seen it—it reminded Peter of when Neal had first gotten out of prison. "When I saw what I looked like . . ." his face fell, then brightened. "At least it's clean now."

Peter remembered the lank, greasy strands from the day before all too well. "I bet that feels better."

"Soooo much better," Neal agreed, smiling broadly. "And no more beard."

"Yeah, even you couldn't pull that look off," Peter joked, which got an enthusiastic nod from Neal.

"I know! And it's so itchy," Neal said, rubbing a hand over his now-smooth chin. "How do people grow beards like that? Ugh. Just don't get it. Also, I got to take a shower. They didn't want me to, but I said, come on, it's been _forever, _so they let me. With the nurse. I mean, not _with_ the nurse, you know," he added hastily, "but she helped me."

"I get it," Peter said and couldn't help smiling again because Neal was the ultimate charmer when he tried, but Neal doped up was charming in a whole different way (because he wasn't trying at all).

"It's kinda hard with only one arm so . . . ." He waved his good arm in the air for emphasis, then lowered his voice, like he was imparting a secret. "Oh. They gave me drugs, Peter."

"I know."

"Oh, good. Didn' want you to think I was just . . . acting weird," Neal said, his relief evident. "And I need the drugs, because right now, it kinda hurts all over."

He'd said it carelessly, but Peter had to swallow around the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. "I know, Neal. But you're safe now, and it's going to get a little bit better each day. You'll see."

Neal nodded and the next thing Peter knew, Neal had grabbed his hand impulsively and squeezed it. That kind of unabashed affection only provided more proof of how under the influence Neal was. "Really glad you're here, Peter."

"Me, too," Peter answered, his voice suddenly gruff, and when had it gotten so dusty in here, anyway, that his eyes were watering? "Me, too."

He waited for Neal to pull his hand back, but he didn't. Instead, Neal just smiled at him, fingers relaxing as he fell asleep once more. Peter sat there, the warmth of Neal's hand atop his own oddly comforting.

For a long time, Peter didn't move. No point in disturbing Neal, after all. He'd fallen asleep with a smile on his face, and the sight warmed Peter's heart.

When he was sure Neal was sleeping deeply, Peter took out his phone, hit a speed-dial number, and waited for the call to connect.

"Hi June, it's Peter." He kept his voice low.

"Peter! Are you at the hospital? How is Neal?"

"Better," he said. "A little. Still pretty drugged up. He's sleeping now."

"That's good," June said. She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice shook just a little. "When I saw him today . . . he looks—he looks like he needs to sleep for a week. At least."

"Yeah." Peter swallowed. "But there's something else he needs and I think you could help with that."

"Anything, Peter. Anything at all. What is it?" June sounded faintly anxious.

"I was wondering," Peter said, "if you knew where Neal gets his hair cut."

A moment later, June started to laugh.

* * *

><p>Neal was still dozing when Peter came to his room the next morning. Two days removed from captivity, he looked a little more like himself. The bruises on his face and neck were still jarring to look at, but his color was better and his skin looked healthier.<p>

Neal didn't stay asleep long, though. Just as Peter was settling into the bedside chair to skim the _New York Times, _there was Neal, blinking up blearily and looking inordinately pleased to see him. His right eye, which had been nearly swollen shut, was open a little wider today.

Peter set the paper aside and smiled back as Neal hit the button to raise the head of the bed. "Hey there. Back in the land of the living. How are you feeling?"

"Better." Neal didn't elaborate, which made Peter suspicious, but he kept that to himself, saying only, "That's good to hear."

"I see you got coffee," Neal said, eyeing Peter's cup hopefully. The vacant gaze he'd had yesterday was gone. "You don't happen to have a second cup tucked away anywhere, do you?"

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Are you allowed coffee?"

"What a silly question."

"Which I notice you didn't answer," Peter countered, smiling.

"Come on, I'm asking for a cup of coffee, not a fifth of Scotch," Neal said, a pleading note in his voice. "What harm could it do?"

"For someone suffering from dehydration? Maybe a lot." Peter gestured at Neal's arm. "You've still got an IV in, for God's sake."

"Oh, I think they're going to be taking that out any time now," Neal assured him.

"Hmm." Peter wasn't buying that one.

"Anyway, it's probably antibiotics, not fluids."

"It's probably both."

Neal frowned. "And where did you earn your medical degree?"

"I don't need a medical degree to know that caffeine is probably not recommended for someone in your position. I've talked with your doctor, you know."

"Hmm." Abandoning logic, Neal moved right into shameless emotional manipulation. He knew Peter too well. Staring at the agent with a troubled expression, he said, "Do you know how long it's been since I had coffee?"

_Fifty-two days_, Peter thought as a chill ran down his spine. The count he'd kept in his mind, of how long Neal had been gone, was automatic—and constantly updated. But he kept that to himself, saying instead, "I know, Neal. This is cruel and unusual. Tell you what—as soon as you're allowed it, I'll bring some of June's Italian roast over myself. In the meantime . . ." he injected some fake excitement into his voice, "I could pour you some more water. How 'bout that?"

Neal tried to glare at him, but it morphed quickly into a kind of wry affection. "Pass. But even though you heartlessly didn't bring me anything, I've got a present for you." He held out a sheaf of folded papers. "Consider it sort of a thank you."

Peter sighed. "Neal, you may have forgotten, but I already told you you don't have to—" he examined the papers and looked up in confusion from the list of dinner entrees. "You want me to help you with your meal choices?"

Neal's eye roll was silent but eloquent, and God, but Peter had missed seeing that. (Just how much, he hadn't realized until that very moment.) "Um, other side?"

"Oh."

"Leftover menus were the only scratch paper the aide could find for me last night," Neal explained. The words were said casually, but there was a tension in his posture that hadn't been there before.

Peter turned the sheets over. Staring out at him from the first one, sketched in pencil with incredible detail, was a long face dominated by a pair of large, dark eyes, set close together, along with high cheekbones, and a jutting, pointed chin.

"There were three of them," Neal said, his voice ever so slightly strained. "I drew them for you."

"So I see. This is . . . great, Neal," Peter said, giving him a quick approving glance before looking down again at the drawing. Neal looked pleased at the praise. Underneath, in his angular script, he'd written

"_Tom"_

Brown eyes, medium brown hair (buzz cut), 6'2", approx. 200 lbs.

He'd also drawn a shamrock with what looked like a stylized number 12 beneath it, then, in parentheses were the words (_tattoo, left forearm)._

"They didn't bother with disguises," Neal said. "Sorry I couldn't get these to you earlier. Thought I'd save you the trouble of bringing in a sketch artist."

Peter nodded absently, still engrossed. The second sheet held another sketch, even more detailed than the first, of a slightly darker-skinned man with a thick neck that spoke of a powerful build. His face was rounder, chubbier and pock-marked, with a slightly crooked nose that looked to have been broken more than once and a mouth curled into a cruel sneer. He had dark, stringy-looking hair that hung just above his shoulders. The overall effect was sinister, and something about the eyes made Peter want to shiver. Beneath the drawing, Neal had written

_Dom_

Aka "Dick"

Brown eyes, black shoulder-length hair, 5'10", approx. 290 lbs

Peter went to the next page. Unlike the first two, who seemed like the kind of characters you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, the third man was . . . reasonably good looking.

Mark Hatchin

New Jersey

Born 1982

Aka "Harry"; Aka "Hatch"

Blue eyes, brown hair, 6'4"

Likes cowboy boots.

Peter held up the sketch of Hatchin. "New Jersey, born 1982?"

"Oh, I got a look at good old Mark's driver's license," Neal said easily. "Which looked legit, by the way. He was the man in charge, the one who'd been following me before they grabbed me. He's also the only one whose real name I know. They were careful to use fake names around me."

Peter nodded, phone already to his ear as he called Jones to run the license. They'd have this Hatchin's address in seconds. It was probably too much to hope for that he'd be there, but it was a hell of a lead. When he'd hung up, he said, "Fake names, huh? Oh, I see. Tom, Dick, and Harry," he observed, reading the names in quotation marks. "Cute."

"Yeah, they thought so." Neal grimaced. "One time they slipped up with "Dick," though—called him Dom. I figured that must be his real name."

"And this Hatchin—I'm guessing he didn't just hand you his driver's license?"

Neal gave him a faint smile. "Not quite. I picked his pocket." His expression sobered. "He caught me, but at least I got him to think I was taking it out, when I was really putting it back. So he didn't know I saw it. New Jersey license, birth year 1982. I didn't have time to read the rest."

"Because he caught you."

"Earned me some more quiet time in my private underground paradise." Neal's voice was casual, but he was trying too hard for Peter to believe it. His gaze flickered away from Peter and around the room.

Peter didn't know what to say. He knew Neal wouldn't want sympathy, wouldn't want to dwell on what he'd gone through. Not right now. "Well," he finally managed, "at least it wasn't for nothing. This is good, Neal. Really good. The license, the sketches, all of this detail—it's going to help a lot."

"I hoped so. I mean, it's far from my best work, but I tried. Oh, and the last page—" Peter flipped to the fourth sheet and found two neat lists: on the left side, paintings, and on the right side a column of names, states, and years. "Those are the paintings they had me forge. When I was done with those, they decided to use me for other stuff. So they had me make a bunch of fake IDs. Which, by the way, I tried to do as sloppily as I could without being too obvious about it. I wrote everything I could remember down there."

"This is great, Neal," Peter said, meaning it. He returned to the first sketch. "Good detail about the tattoo. Any idea what the significance of the number 12 is?"

"Actually it's a 1 and a 2. For A and B, first two letters in the alphabet." Peter frowned and Neal explained patiently, "Aryan Brotherhood tattoo, Peter. You see your fair share of those guys in supermax."

Ironic that it was easy, so easy, to forget that Neal had done hard time, where you learned factoids about prison gangs if you wanted to survive. It shouldn't have been hard for Peter to forget—he'd been the one to put Neal there, after all—but it still was. He nodded. "If he did time, we should get a hit on his fingerprints."

"Probably a good chance," Neal agreed. "I didn't see anybody wearing gloves."

"The only thing that concerns me," Peter said quietly, "is the fact that you stayed up all night sketching these when you were supposed to be, you know, resting."

Neal waved a dismissive hand. "Please. I'm a professional and I work quick. A couple of pencil sketches aren't going to take me all night. Especially when . . ." he paused to clear his throat, "when I've sketched them in my mind hundreds of times."

Not sure what to say, Peter nodded.

"Anyway," Neal continued, tone lighter now, "you ever tried to sleep in a hospital?"

Peter had, and he knew just what Neal meant. The noise, the frequent interruptions, the uncomfortable mattress, the thin pillows and scratchy sheets—it all made sleeping a challenge.

"I did them during the times I woke up." Neal shrugged. "Til I was ready to fall asleep again."

There were other things that might keep Neal awake besides noise and low-thread count hospital sheets. Peter thought uneasily about Neal sitting here sketching in the dark—no, he realized, Neal couldn't have done these in the dark. Maybe he'd kept the lights on; who could blame him if he'd had his fill of the dark for a while? Suppressing a shudder, Peter wondered about nightmares and blackness and how much of what Neal was passing off as hospital-induced insomnia was actually something far more unsettling. He opened his mouth to start to say something about Neal talking with someone—which he knew Neal wasn't going to want to do, but he would have to. What Peter needed to do was figure out a way to do it that didn't feel like coercion. Neal had endured enough of that for the past seven weeks. Was it too soon to talk to Neal about this, though? Yes, he decided, and shut his mouth without speaking. Too soon. Time enough for that later.

"—did get some sleep," Neal was saying. "Believe me, if I hadn't gotten any rest at all, I'd be a whole lot crankier than I am right now." He hesitated. "I did have one little . . . incident. Did the nurse tell you?"

Peter shook his head and watched Neal warily, his heart sinking.

"Oh." Neal looked sorry he'd brought it up. "Well, one of the nurses turned the light off after I fell asleep. She thought she was being helpful, but, uh, when I woke up in the middle of the night . . ." Neal grimaced and now he was looking very intently at the wall that was behind Peter's shoulder. "Let's just say that darkness is not my friend right now."

"That's perfectly understandable," Peter said quickly.

"Actually what it is, is humiliating," Neal retorted. He met Peter's gaze, finally, his eyes filled with a disturbing combination of sadness and rage. "For a minute there, I was afraid they were going to sedate me, for Christ's sake. I was thinking about it later and it suddenly hit me: I've regressed back to being four years old and it's pathetic. Sleeping with the light on, being praised for eating my vegetables, needing help to the bathroom. It all kinda sucks."

"No—" Peter began.

Neal shot him a sharp, disappointed look, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Oh, trust me. It does."

"That's not what I meant. I know it sucks, but the rest of it—just, _no_."

Neal's face registered confusion, along with disagreement, but he didn't say anything. He just sighed.

Peter leaned forward in the chair. "Neal, I've seen you do a lot of impressive things over the years. Daring heists, complicated cons, some things I shouldn't know about and that you can't ever admit to. But I don't think I've ever been more impressed by you than I was that day at the warehouse." Peter paused and waited until Neal's eyes met his. "And I know I've never been more proud."

"Not sure how having to be rescued is anything to be proud of," Neal muttered.

"You spent almost two months in a nightmare, and you came out of it on your own, with your head held high," Peter said, his voice emphatic. Just the memory of how Neal had looked that day, and what he'd done to emerge from that underground prison, was enough to make Peter's throat close up. "The strength, the guts needed to do that—that's the opposite of pathetic, Neal. It's inspiring. It's something you should be proud as hell of."

"It doesn't feel that way right now."

"No. Right now, you've been beaten down and you need time to recover. Anyone would. But you will recover, Neal. Cut yourself some slack. So what if you need a little help right now? There's no shame in that. You've been through a major trauma and no one bounces back from that in a day. But here's the thing. This—" Peter waved a hand in Neal's direction to indicate his current condition, "is temporary. But the determination you showed that day—that is forever. That's who you are, and that's what will get you through this and out on the other side."

He could tell that he'd made an impression on Neal—at least given him something to think about—and sent a mental thank-you to El for planting the seed. Also, he'd need to have a talk with the nurses about being more careful. Not to mention that, at this stage of his recovery, there was no way in hell Neal needed to be sedated. Anyone who did that was going to regret it for a very long time.

"You might want to consider a second career as a motivational speaker," Neal said. He managed a small smile, which Peter returned. "Thank you for that."

"I meant every word, Neal."

"And it means a lot to me." Neal stopped, took in a breath, and started again. "Peter, listen, I . . . I wanted to talk to you about something."

The gravity in his tone made Peter sit up and take notice. Neal sounded deadly serious, and Peter mentally braced himself. He'd honestly thought Neal wouldn't want to talk about his captivity, but he'd had been wrong about him before. Maybe he wasn't going to have to coax Neal into this after all. If his partner wanted to talk, Peter would be there to listen.

"Sure, what is it?"

"It's about my statement."

"Oh," Peter said, surprised. "Okay."

Neal looked away. "I know I need to give a formal statement. About what happened. I'd like to do that right away."

Peter eyed him closely. "Okay, but as I just said, you've been through hell. What you've already given me—" he held up Neal's sketches—"is going to help us find these guys. As for the rest . . . you're still recovering. I don't want you to feel any pressure to talk about it until you're ready."

"I—it needs to be soon," Neal said, then looked like he wished he hadn't. "I mean," he added hastily, "it's just that I—I figured, well, that you'd want to be there."

Peter was trying to decide if this was Neal-speak for _"I _want_ you_ to be there,"when Neal continued, the words coming out in a rush, "If you want to be, that is."

"Of course I do," Peter said quickly. "As long as you're okay with it." Sometimes, he knew, it was easier to recount this kind of ordeal to someone with more emotional distance. Not to have a close friend hearing it.

Neal dispelled any doubts on that score with a vigorous nod, although when he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically low and hesitant. "I'd like you to be there, Peter."

"Then I will be. Of course I will."

Neal's expression didn't change, but because Peter was practiced at reading him, he could spot the flash of relief in his eyes, in the way his posture relaxed ever so slightly. "Well, it has to be soon, then. Before you have to go back. To DC. You've already been away for far too long, I'm sure."

_Ah. So that was what this was all about._

"Um, yeah. About that." Peter took a deep breath. "We need to talk about . . . some things that have happened since you've been gone."

Neal sent a quizzical glance in his direction. "Like what?"

"Like the fact that I'm not going back to DC. I mean, I never _went_ to DC."

Neal's eyes narrowed, a line appearing between his brows as he studied Peter's face. Peter could almost see his mind working at processing this news, sifting through theories and putting pieces together. A moment later, his face cleared. "Well, I would have expected nothing less."

Now Peter was the one who was confused. "Really?" Had Diana or Jones talked to him? Or maybe Mozzie . . . .

"Really." Neal looked down, smiled, and shook his head. When he looked up again at Peter, his eyes glowed with surprised affection. "Despite . . . everything that's happened between us, some things never change."

Peter looked at him, still not knowing where this was going.

"It's classic Peter Burke," Neal answered. "Putting your own life on hold to get me out of yet another mess—and that you're still willing to do it means more than you'll ever know. But now that I'm back, you don't have to worry. You can now resume your normally scheduled career in Washington. And hopefully not have to make any more sacrifices on my behalf."

"What? No, no. I didn't _delay_ taking the job in DC. I turned it down permanently—and I did it before you disappeared. Though," Peter added after a moment, "it did have something to do with you."

Neal actually gaped at him, left speechless for a few seconds. When he found his voice, it was incredulous. "You turned it down? Why?"

"I changed my mind." Peter hadn't thought about this in weeks, and he was comfortable with the decision he'd made. Yet, somehow, he was strangely uncomfortable talking about it with Neal.

"Okay, you're gonna have to do better than that," Neal retorted. "This was your _dream_ _job_. And I'm almost afraid to ask, but I have to—if your decision wasn't related to me disappearing, then what does it have to do with me?"

Peter regarded him, tried to figure out the complicated mix of emotions on Neal's face. "I assume you remember the last conversation we had before you disappeared. The bad news I had to deliver."

"Hard to forget that one."

"Yeah." Peter's mouth twisted into a frown that mirrored Neal's. "Well, the people who made that decision about your deal? The more I thought about it, the more I realized—I don't want to be one of those people."

"You wouldn't be," Neal said. "You _couldn't_ be." The absolute conviction in his voice warmed Peter deep inside.

"I wouldn't want to be, but my role there would be very different. It's the nature of the job. And I don't think it's the job I was meant to do. I was meant to be on the ground, doing the work. Seeing what they did to you, how unfair it was . . . it kind of brought it all home to me."

Neal looked unconvinced. "I say again, it's your dream job, Peter."

"It _was _my dream job," Peter corrected, his voice even. "Dreams change."

Neal started a little at those words, opening his mouth as if to say something and then closing it again. He stared at Peter for a few long seconds, face still showing his disbelief. "You're staying in New York."

"Yep."

"In White Collar."

"Well, I wasn't gonna go work with Ruiz," Peter said, aiming for some levity.

Neal didn't take the bait, his voice serious. "And Elizabeth?"

Leave it to Neal to so quickly ask the question that was the hardest to answer. Peter swallowed hard. "She went. The National Gallery was _her _dream job, and I couldn't ask her to give it up."

Neal didn't respond, just looked at him without speaking, eyes soft with an emotion Peter couldn't define.

"And, yes, I hate it," Peter admitted. He hadn't said that aloud to anyone—he hadn't felt he could—but Neal was different. He always had been, somehow. "I hate living in different cities, only seeing her on weekends if I'm lucky, fitting time together around both our schedules." He paused to give Neal a meaningful look. "And I haven't said that to anyone, because I don't want her to feel guilty. No one knows, least of all El, so please keep it to yourself."

Incongruously, that declaration brought a wry smile to Neal's face. "Peter, regardless of what you've said or not said, if you think no one knows how much you miss your wife, then you're selling all of us very short—Elizabeth most of all."

"I guess you have a point," Peter conceded.

Neal closed his eyes for a second, wincing. "And . . . I hate to sound selfish—I'm apologizing in advance—but I have to ask and you have to be honest with me. Does Elizabeth hate me because you stayed in New York?"

"Does El—what? Why would she?"

"You just said it had to do with me, and—"

Peter shook his head. "I said it was _partially _because of you, and, no, she does not hate you. As I believe I've mentioned a time or two, not everything is about you, Neal."

That brought a look of relief to Neal's face. "In this case, I'm glad to hear it."

"In fact, El is overjoyed you're back and will be up here soon to see you in person." Peter said. "She actually wanted to come up yesterday, but she's got a gala tonight and it would have been hard . . . plus, I thought it might be better if she waited a little while."

"I appreciate that," Neal said with a sigh. "I mean, I'd like to see her, but it's just as well she doesn't see me looking like this."

Peter didn't want to dwell on the depressing topic of Neal's condition, Elizabeth's absence or his current living arrangements any more. "So I'm staying here and Elizabeth does not hate you. Any other questions?"

"Now that you mention it . . ." Neal looked down at the tray table and picked up the Styrofoam cup to drain the contents. "I guess I need to ask—who's going to be my handler, then?"

Peter would have thought that, by this point in the conversation, the answer would have been obvious. "Well, you're not going to be back at work for a while—I hope you know that—but . . . you're looking at him."

More genuine surprise on Neal's face, with an element of wariness, too. "You?"

Peter nodded.

"But you said I was—" Neal stopped abruptly, started again. "You said that you—" Again he cut himself off.

When Neal showed no inclination to continue, Peter prompted, "I said what?"

"You . . . you brought in Siegel, you didn't want to be my handler anymore. Then it was going to be Jones. When you were going to DC," Neal said after an abnormally long pause, eyes flicking away from Peter's face. Belatedly, he tacked on a sardonic grin that looked wrong, somehow, and then poured some water from the plastic pitcher on the tray table.

It was a tell—the way he said the words, the way he wouldn't meet Peter's eyes, the utterly fake-looking smile. The kind of thing Neal would normally hide much better—if he weren't less than 48 hours removed from a trauma, still feverish, and still under the influence of painkillers. Peter would have bet a month's pay that that the comment about Siegel and Jones wasn't at all what Neal had meant to say. What he _had _meant to say, though, was a mystery. And the same reasons that Neal couldn't hide his deception were why Peter couldn't call him on it. The thought of putting pressure on Neal right now was simply untenable. So he ignored it and said simply, "Circumstances change. I've had time to think about things and this is the right way to go."

Neal scrutinized him with a gaze so intense that Peter began to feel uncomfortable. Eventually his face relaxed and Neal nodded, as if something finally made sense. "I get it. You don't want to dump me on Jones. Or Diana."

"No." Peter shook his head, not wanting to show how the remark had stung. "I had my reasons for bringing in Agent Siegel, but a lot has happened since then. And when I was going to DC, yes, I was going to hand you off to Jones, but now I'm staying. I figured we should put the . . . issues we've had this year behind us and concentrate on what comes next. If you can do that. We started this whole thing together, we should finish it together. You and I."

Again Neal just looked at him and Peter wondered what was going through his mind. Finally one corner of Neal's mouth lifted upward in a half-smile. "I guess I can live with that. If you can."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." It was Peter's turn to get serious. "Speaking of that . . . Neal, I want you to know that I don't agree with the Justice Department's decision about you. At all."

"I know you don't."

"And I haven't given up hope of changing it," Peter said. "Admittedly, the last few weeks, I've been busy with other things—"

"Such as finding me."

"That was priority one, yes."

"Did you think I ran?"

Interesting, how rapidly Neal had changed the subject. The question shouldn't have taken Peter by surprise. It was just that it had been clear for quite a while now that Neal had been abducted; he'd almost forgotten those early days when it had been in question.

"At first," Peter admitted, "yes, I did think that."

"Yeah, I figured you would." Neal exhaled, a long slow breath. "Considering the circumstances, hard to blame you. I spent a lot of time wondering if you'd even be looking. Figured you might farm the whole mess out to the Marshals, with me being a fugitive and all."

He studied Peter for a few seconds. "But you didn't, did you? Why not?"

"Mozzie set me straight. Well," Peter corrected, "he set all of us straight."

"Yeah," Neal said, smiling faintly. "I can imagine."

Peter sighed. "Actually, I'm not sure you can. He's kind of scary when he's worked up, especially about you." He eyed Neal closely. "And as for farming you out to the Marshals, that was never going to happen, regardless of whether you were a fugitive or a missing person. Finding you is _my _job. Once we realized you'd been taken . . . ." his voice trailed off and his mouth tightened. "I was never going to stop looking."

"I appreciate that," Neal said. His voice got husky and he had to look away.

"Also," Peter said, "this is probably a good time to say that when I thought you _had_ made a break for it, given the unfairness of the situation, I almost didn't blame you."

Neal shook his head, an appreciative grin on his face. "You're one of a kind, Peter."

"Takes one to know one," Peter shot back. "Anyway, I _am_ going to do what I can to get that decision reconsidered."

"Don't go too far out on any limbs for me," Neal advised. "I can't imagine turning down that job did your career any favors."

"Don't worry about my career."

"I won't, if you don't worry about me," Neal said. "I . . . if I have to serve the rest of my time, in White Collar, with you—well, there are worse things."

Peter pressed his lips together, not wanting to think about the first-hand experience Neal now had, with far, far worse things. He nodded.

"Speaking of that," Neal said, then had to stop and cough. Peter watched in sympathy and handed Neal a pillow to clutch to his chest as he coughed some more. It was a good thirty seconds before he could speak. "Oh, that hurts." Neal's eyes were watering. "Okay. What I was trying to say was, I believe I'm missing an accessory." He poked his left foot up against the blanket that covered it.

Peter looked at him, saying nothing.

"I mean, we've just addressed the fact that my sentence still stands. And I am, after all, me." Neal said, with a smirk. "And awake and not . . . confined, so . . ." he let his voice trail off.

For a long moment, Peter studied him, before finally asking, "You going anywhere?"

"Home. If I could," Neal said immediately, then sighed. "That's the only place I want to go right now. But realistically, no. Not going anywhere."

"That's what I thought," Peter said, a satisfied look on his face. He got up and moved to the window, facing away from Neal.

"Your trust in me is truly refreshing, but I doubt the Marshals share it. Shouldn't they have been in here by now with a new tracker?"

When he got no response. Neal sighed. "Peter, come on. I know the dedicated personnel of the Marshals' Service and they would _not_ be moved by—by whatever sob story you told them about me."

It took a minute before Peter turned around. When he did, he had an odd expression on his face. It looked like guilt.

Neal stared, fascinated. "Oh, Peter, you didn't tell them a sob story, did you? You—"

"You're right about the Marshals," Peter cut in. "I'm sure they would have been here a long time ago to secure you. If they, uh . . ." Peter looked away, "if they knew you'd been found, that is."

"So you didn't tell them." Neal's eyes sparkled with delight.

"Well, the warehouse raid has created a lot of work for the White Collar division—so much evidence to process, so many leads to run down." Peter cleared his throat. "I think it's possible that, in the midst of all the activity, someone may have neglected to inform the Marshals' Service that you had been located."

Neal laughed, hard enough that he started coughing again. Peter poured him some more water, which Neal accepted gratefully. When he'd drunk it all down and was able to speak again, he said, "One piece of advice, Peter, from an expert? If you are seriously going to use that story on the Marshals, please, for the love of God, do it over the phone. Because if you try to sell it in person, you're going to end up in handcuffs, or wherever someone like you ends up when they fail to report the presence of a fugitive."

"I told you: you are not a fugitive, you are a missing person," Peter corrected. "_Were _a missing person," he corrected himself.

"Missing person," Neal said thoughtfully. "_Former_ missing person."

"Exactly. And you know what? I'm not ashamed of how I handled it. What they don't know won't hurt them," Peter said, a touch of defiance in his voice.

That put a grin on Neal's face. "You know, even better than you telling that tall tale on the phone," he mused, "would be having Diana do it."

"Diana?" Peter looked confused, then mildly suspicious. "Why Diana?"

"Because she's the best liar on the team," Neal said easily. "I mean, not counting me, obviously."

"Obviously." Peter mock-glared at him.

Neal gave him a disbelieving look. "You're seriously telling me you've never noticed?"

"That you're a good liar? I was aware."

"That _Diana _is a good liar." Neal rolled his eyes. "Come on, Peter, keep up."

"I knew what you meant," Peter informed him.

"Oh, sure you did." Neal laid the sarcasm on thick, and Peter knew he was enjoying their familiar banter just as much as Peter was.

"So . . . do you have another anklet?" Neal asked casually.

"No. We'd just . . . we have to call the Marshals to get it delivered," Peter said, feeling uncomfortable all over again. He really had planned to delay this discussion, to put the Marshals off as long as he could—but here was Neal, raising the topic himself.

"Well, bring it on," Neal said, his tone careless, and he wasn't trying this time—it sounded real. "You know, because I might make a break. For June's," he added, with an expression that made it clear he was joking.

Neal was making all of this so damned easy. Under other circumstances, Peter might have been suspicious, but not now. Not anymore. Peter felt a measure of relief—but also sadness—as he called the office.

"Hi, Diana. I'm at the hospital with Neal . . . yeah, he's feeling better. More awake. Listen, Diana, I need you to call the Marshals to bring over a new anklet for Neal . . . I know, but we talked about it and it's good." He nodded, listening. "That's right. Tell them we found him . . . yeah, keep the _when we found him _part vague . . . yes, two miles from here, for now. We'll update it later."

Peter put his phone away. "Well, that's taken care of."

"I hope you don't get in any trouble for keeping my reappearance a secret," Neal said.

Peter waved that away. "Diana will handle it." He paused and looked intently at Neal. "Look, since you mentioned your statement . . . ."

"Yes?"

"We had an agent from Missing Persons, Tonya Metcalfe, who was helping with your case. You don't know her, but she's been heavily involved."

"Ah. I'd like to meet her," Neal said.

"She'd like that, too, believe me. I was wondering how you'd feel about her taking your account of what happened. She has a lot of experience in taking statements . . . in cases like this." Peter had very nearly said _victim statements_; he caught himself just in time. Something told him Neal wouldn't like the term _victim._

"Sure, that's fine," Neal answered, unconcerned.

"It's your choice," Peter assured him. "It doesn't have to be Agent Metcalfe. If you'd rather have someone else, an agent you know, or—"

Neal shook his head. "If you trust her, Peter, so do I." He looked at Peter. "As long as you're there, too."

"Of course," Peter said again. "But now that you know I don't have to go to DC, there's no rush."

"I'd still rather get it over with," Neal said. "If that's okay."

"We could wait til you're discharged," Peter suggested. "I can even bring the recording equipment to June's and—"

"I don't want to do it there." Neal's tone as he interrupted Peter was flat and unequivocal, but his eyes darted away again, not meeting Peter's.

It had been thoughtless to even suggest it, Peter realized, mentally castigating himself. Neal didn't want to bring his experience home any more than he had to. "Sure. Whatever you want. Tomorrow? I'll call Tonya and set it up. We can get the equipment down here to record you."

"Tomorrow's good," Neal said. "Thanks, Peter."

_TBC_

_Thank you for reading and commenting!_


	5. Empty

A Chance to Be Better

…..

**Chapter Five – Empty **

"_I can push everything into the dark. But it leaves me empty. And the dark always ends up finding me in my sleep."  
>― Rebecca Donovan, <em>_Barely Breathing _

Warning: Allusions to violence and torture

* * *

><p>Neal's statement was scheduled for late morning of the next day. It was a Sunday, but no one suggested waiting for the work week. After leaving Neal's room, Peter had called Tonya, a little apologetically, to let her know that Neal was ready for her to take his account.<p>

"That's great, Peter. I can be there—let's see . . . " she hummed under her breath, apparently checking something, "I'll need to go pick up the equipment, but I should be able to make it in—about an hour?"

"No, no, not right now," Peter assured her. It was Saturday, for heaven's sake. That was Tonya, though—ready to drop everything at a moment's notice to help someone. "We thought maybe tomorrow. I know it's Sunday, but . . . ."

"No buts necessary, Peter. Tomorrow is fine. I take it he didn't want to wait."

"The sooner the better, he said."

"That's good. Psychologically speaking, that's much healthier than a reluctance to discuss it." She paused for a moment. "Did he have any concerns? I mean, given that he doesn't know me."

"Neal said if I trust you, then so does he," Peter said. "He asked me to be there, though."

"Are you all right with that?"

He bristled automatically. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Tonya let out a sigh. "Sorry, I didn't phrase that very well. I was just thinking that . . . well, I know it's going to be hard for you, Peter."

Peter scoffed at that. "If you want to worry about someone, worry about Neal. Not me."

"Actually," she said dryly, "believe it or not, I have the capacity to be concerned about both of you."

"Neal's the one who's going to have a tough time. All I have to do is sit there and listen," Peter said.

"And you don't think _that's_ going to be tough?" Tonya countered.

She was right—not that he wanted to consider that. In fact, he felt guilty even thinking about it. His feelings were so far down on the scale of importance as to be immaterial. "I'm not gonna pretend it'll be easy. But that's not important. And I can handle it."

"Fine," she said, but not in a way that said she was conceding anything. "Are you okay with me taking the lead, Peter?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "This is your area; you're in charge. It's why I asked you to help."

"That's good." She paused and Peter waited. "In my experience, people in Neal's situation just want to . . . get through it, you know?"

"I get it," Peter replied. "In other words, you want me to stay out of your way and keep my mouth shut."

She let out a very long, very elaborate sigh. "That is _not _what I said." By this point, though, they knew each other well enough that their back-and-forth was strictly tongue in cheek.

Peter chuckled. "I know. You're much more tactful. Let's see, how would _you_ have put it? I'm there to support Neal. That's all."

"Now there you go," she said, sounding pleased. "Well said, Agent Burke. The important thing to remember is that Neal wanted you there, but not asking the questions. If you think about why that is, you'll know everything you need to know."

They spoke for a few more minutes, discussing logistics, before hanging up.

* * *

><p>He comes suddenly to full awareness with a shudder.<p>

_Someone's here._

He'd been sleeping—sleeping or unconscious, he hardly knows the difference anymore—but Neal's awake now and he can sense another presence in the room. His eyes are closed and he knows it's better not to open them, to let them know that he's awake. So he lies there, pretending to sleep. But all the while, he can hear little movements nearby; they're not trying to be quiet. Then again, why would they be? They don't care about waking him up. In fact, that's just what they want. When they're ready, they want him awake. Aware. It's no fun for them otherwise.

He can feel that they're close. So close. Though they haven't touched him yet and that's something, so he holds onto that. He realizes that, without meaning to, he's holding his breath; then, in the next instant he realizes how stupid that is. Sleeping people breathe deeply and evenly; that's what he should be doing. So he tries. He exhales and then breathes in again. As the seconds tick by, as his fear grows, it's hard to keep the breaths from turning into gasps, but he tries.

Other than breathing, he doesn't move. Not only is it important to maintain the pretense that he's asleep, but as a general rule he knows better than to move unless he's been given permission, knows that will bring punishment. He's learned that the hard way. Neal's not much of a lesson-learner—as Peter could attest—but this is one that has become ingrained through pain and deprivation.

The thought of Peter is sharp and painful, for so many reasons, and he quickly pushes it away, as he always does. Thinking about Peter is not going to help him now; in fact, all it does is hurt. Peter is out there, probably not looking for him, probably convinced he ran. Peter's not thinking about Neal, so it's foolish for Neal to think about him. Anyway, Peter never comes, no matter how often Neal imagines (foolishly, so foolishly) that he does.

As he lies there, frozen, listening to the little noises, it occurs to him that this is a new way to torment him. They must be doing it on purpose—lying in wait, so close, making him wait for the next bit of cruelty they're going to inflict. It feels like every nerve in his body is alive with dread of what's to come, and it's horrible. He despises the fear that he feels, but he's powerless to stop it. Sweat is beading on his forehead; he wishes he could bend down so he could wipe it away, but he can't. He hasn't been given permission. Some acts of defiance are worth the punishment they bring, but not this one. Not now.

Something touches his wrist and he does stop breathing momentarily, then; he can't help it. They don't usually touch him there and the fingers wrap around his wrist for a moment. He stays still, because they haven't told him to move, and waits for the fingers to tighten, to squeeze—_maybe until the pain is so bad that he cries out, is that what they want?_—but instead, the touch moves up to his forehead. It's cool against his skin and it would feel good, even, if he didn't know what it was a prelude to. Dom's touches—_is it Dom? _he wonders frantically—sometimes start off as gentle, before they progress to the viciousness that the sadistic bastard revels in. A moment later and the hand is removed. He knows better than to breathe a sigh of relief, though. Instead he waits, eyes closed, motionless except for his breathing, and resigns himself to whatever comes next. Because surely something will.

More seconds tick by, but they feel like hours to him, as he tries to stay still, stay relaxed in spite of the tension that's knotting every muscle and sinew. Finally the waiting and wondering is too much. He has to know, know if it's Dom or Mark, if he has the belt or another of his toys with him. It's probably Dom—his most frequent visitor when he's down here—and it's Dom he fears the most. If he knows, Neal thinks, he can prepare himself better. Knowing it's a risk, he cracks open one eye, just a fraction, but all he can see is pitch blackness and his fear ratchets up even higher.

He's come to hate the dark so much. He never used to mind it; darkness is a criminal's friend, but everything is different now. And they must know that, too, because this time whoever it is hasn't turned on the flashlight or the lantern. This time Neal is alone with him, in the dark, with no way to know which of them it is or what they have planned.

His head is tilted to the side, and his neck aches but he can't change positions, not now. His throat is bone-dry, painfully so, and he swallows involuntarily, hoping they wouldn't notice. He tries not to think about how long it's been since he'd had any water—or about what he would do to get some more. He's afraid of what they can make him do if they feel like it. _Maybe they'll go away, _he thinks, desperately, but he knows better.

_They never just go away. Until they've gotten what they want. Whether that's to force you to work again, or just to hurt you or—_

The hand is back, on his shoulder—_please, not that_, he thinks—and tracing a path quickly over to his neck. No, two hands, one on each side of his throat. That sends him over the edge and he can't help flinching—it's automatic by now, because he knows what's coming and even though he knows that reacting will make it worse, he cannot stop himself from doing it.

"Shh, you're okay," a voice says. It sounds like a woman's voice, which doesn't make any sense. He decides he must be imagining it, the same way he's always imagining that he hears Peter's voice. He's not imagining those hands, though, on his neck, and he knows any second now they're going to start stroking and caressing, and then they'll gradually tighten, ever so slowly closing around his throat, cutting off his air. He tries to steel himself against it, to take some deep breaths while he still can. He tells himself it'll be over soon, it'll just be a few seconds—

Again the voice, the female voice-he-must-be–imagining, coos, in a parody of tenderness, _"It's okay. Take it easy." _ Dom does that, sometimes, pretending to be kind right before he starts, calling Neal _pet_, telling him, _you're okay, I'll take care of you_. That's what convinces Neal that, no matter what the voice sounds like, it must be, it _has _to be Dom, because Dom talks to him like this, and he loves to touch him, sometimes gently, but mostly possessively, mostly because he wants to hurt, to control. For Dom, _taking care _means bending Neal to his will, making him plead.

He thinks he smells that too-sweet cologne that Dom wears in a mostly-unsuccessful attempt to cover his lack of personal hygiene. The stink of it clogs his nose; Neal has grown to hate that odor. And all the while the voice is murmuring in his ear. But a moment later Neal forgets both the smell and the voice because he dares to flex his right hand, just a little, and his heart almost stops.

_He can move. _

Somehow he's not shackled—well, his right hand is free, at least. The left is tied down, strapped to his body somehow. That's new, and it hurts; he lets out an involuntary whimper when he tries, unsuccessfully, to move it. But one hand is uncuffed, and so, he discovers, are his ankles, and that's enough to send hope flaring in his heart. This is his chance; he knows it as surely as he's ever known anything in his life. They always chain him up when he's down here, but for the moment, he's free. Neal has no idea how this happened, or when—and it terrifies him more than he wants to admit that he has no memory of it—but he knows he may never get this opportunity again. So, quickly, he brings his right hand up in a sharp, arcing motion. The first thing he does is grab for the hands that are at his throat and smash into them, shoving them away ferociously. Dom is so much bigger and stronger than he is, Neal has only seconds and he must take advantage of every one of them.

Anger and desperation mix with the hope he feels, and Neal lashes out, knowing he needs to hit hard, to hurt. He thinks he must have taken Dom by surprise, and the thought fills him with fierce joy. Dom is so used to Neal's submission, to Neal just _taking it, _that he's probably not prepared for this. All the pent-up emotion from the days, weeks (months?) of captivity, of coercion and humiliation, flows out of him, giving him strength and filling him with the need to inflict the kind of pain he's been feeling, to turn it around on his tormentor. He can hear himself yelling—loud, almost feral sounds, no words. He isn't supposed to speak without permission, so this is another transgression, but, god, it feels good. Even if he knows it's only for himself. There is no one nearby who can help him, after all.

Again he hears a woman's voice, close to him, and now it sounds oddly like screaming, like panic. But none of his captors are women and he figures he is confused, he is imagining things—_it wouldn't be the first time_—and anyway he's lost in the joy of striking out, of hitting, of finally having his hands and feet free and he's using them, using them to viciously punch and kick, though he's tangled in something that feels like a blanket, and that's strange because they hardly ever give him a blanket—

Now there are other voices, and other sounds he can't identify, and they're calling him _Mr. Caffrey _and asking him to _please calm down_ and he laughs, laughs with a tinge of hysteria at the idea that they think they can get him back under control, after what they've done, by pretending to treat him with respect, by pretending to _ask _him for anything. When in reality what they do, what they always, do, is order him to obey—and then hurt him when he resists.

That's what he's still doing—resisting—but he's getting tired, faster than he should, as the burst of adrenaline fades. He keeps trying to get up—_this is your chance, _the voice in his mind screams, _you need to go, get out_—but his limbs are too heavy, uncooperative. He's weak from lack of food and water, from whatever drugs they've been giving him, and mentally he curses his body for betraying him when he needs it most.

More hands on him, holding him down—_no, not again_—and the voices are louder and more urgent, and he's realizing that there are too many of them. Dom always visits him alone, because he wants Neal all to himself, but this time the others must be there, too. He shouldn't have made so much noise, maybe they wouldn't have come to help. He wants to cry, to scream, because he's realizing that he's failed and the disappointment is crushing, a weight pinning him to the floor, like the shackles they force him to wear. This was his chance to escape and now it's gone.

Neal keeps trying to fight, but he's getting weaker. They're grabbing him with strong, vise-like hands, they're going to put the restraints on again, and he might even beg them not to if he thought it would help. But he knows it won't help, it never does, even though they like it when he begs. Suddenly he feels a sharp, painful pinch, and a searing cold starts to flow through him, slowing him down, paralyzing him where he lies. Despair fills his mind; he wasn't quick enough, he's lost his chance and he will suffer for it, suffer so badly, because he knows they've injected him again and soon he'll be helpless again. They haven't drugged him this way since those first, early days, and he's forgotten how much he fears it. Tremors are running through his body and he can't control them. He can't control anything. Like always. The realization is shattering.

It occurs to him, then, in a terrible flash of insight, that this must have been the plan from the beginning. How stupid he'd been to think otherwise. His momentary freedom had been no accident. No, they'd decided to deliberately leave him uncuffed so he'd try to escape. Get his hopes up, watch him struggle uselessly, then enjoy subduing him and—later—punishing him for fighting back.

Not _they_, though. _He. _Dom.

Of his captors, Mark mostly only wants him to work, and Tom—or whatever his name really is—doesn't bother Neal at all as long as he does what he's told, but Dom—Dom is different. This scenario is just the kind of thing Dom would dream up, just the kind of sick game he delights in playing. Dom enjoys power and domination, and having someone completely under his control pushes all of his buttons. Neal knows that all too well.

He's still thrashing weakly, fighting them with the last bit of energy he has left, but it's hopeless. He's thoroughly overpowered; he knows that now. Every part of his body is limp from exhaustion and the injection they've given him is deadening everything, forcing him closer to unconsciousness with each passing second. A drop of moisture runs down his cheek—it must be a tear, even though his eyes are squeezed tightly shut because he can't stand to see Dom's leering face—and the further evidence of his lack of control is just another humiliation. Someone wipes at the wetness with a finger and he jerks his head away, trying ineffectually to escape from the unwanted touch. His strength is gone and turning his head is all the movement he can manage right now, as the drugs take over.

One of them is murmuring to him. Neal can't make out the words, but he knows they're making promises about the pain to come. He tries not to think about it.

The world spirals away and he gives in, more than willing to let it happen. Neal will take the oblivion as long as they let him stay there. Because when the drugs wear off, the punishment he'll endure for this escape attempt, for trying to resist, will be brutal.

He'll be awake, but still in the middle of a nightmare—the worst kind. The kind of nightmare you can't wake up from, because it's real.

* * *

><p>It had been another long and restless night.<p>

Peter had slept little and woke up early. He'd done a lot of thinking about what the next day would be like for Neal - and about Tonya's words the day before. Though he'd tried to minimize it, Peter knew that this _would_ be difficult for him personally, too. And he knew that his primary role _was _to just be there for Neal. Not to jump in with questions, not to interrupt the rhythm that Tonya would work to establish, and maybe most importantly, not to distract Neal with his own reactions. Just as she'd said, Neal needed to get through it, which meant that Peter needed to let Tonya facilitate that as much as possible. Tonya was far too polite to say it, but keeping his mouth shut probably _was _the best thing he could do.

He went through his morning routine on autopilot, contemplating the day to come with a mixture of dread and relief. Relief that in a few hours, Neal would have at least surmounted the hurdle of recounting his ordeal. And dread about how bad it would be.

While standing at the kitchen island taking small sips of his still-too-hot coffee—lingering over breakfast wasn't much fun without El—Peter was jolted out of his reverie by the trill of his phone. He hit the button to answer, noting absently that he didn't recognize the number. "Hello?"

A woman's voice asked, "Is this Special Agent Burke?"

"Yes," Peter said, suddenly on edge.

"Agent Burke, my name is Maureen Smolinski. I'm a nursing supervisor at Jersey City Medical Center."

His grip on the phone tightened. Peter didn't remember meeting anyone by that name when he'd spokem with Neal's nurses, but he could tell from the tone of her voice that something was amiss.

Hell, the fact that the hospital was calling at all meant something was amiss.

Before he could say anything, she was already speaking, her tone meant to be reassuring. "I'm calling about Mr. Caffrey. He's all right, but we experienced an . . . incident last night."

Peter set down his coffee cup with a clatter, not reassured in the slightest. A knot of tension was burrowing into his gut. "What happened?"

She sighed. "Mr. Caffrey—Neal—became very agitated. He woke up and was thrashing around uncontrollably. His fever spiked and he was striking out, fighting, and hit one of our nurses. Our staff members tried, but were unable to calm him down. They had no choice but to sedate him."

Anger flooded through Peter's veins and he had to fight for control, had to fight not to shout. "How the hell did that happen?"

The woman didn't sound angry with him. She sounded about as unhappy with this as Peter did. "As I said, he woke up and—"

"Who woke him up?" Peter interrupted, his voice now icy and eerily calm to his own ears. He had a terrible feeling that he already knew what had happened.

"One of the nurses had gone in to check his vitals."

"When was this?"

"Several hours ago."

"And you're just calling me now." Peter spat out the words.

"Agent Burke, let me be clear. I just came on duty and learned what had happened. Apparently the overnight staff didn't want to wake you in the middle of the night."

"You think I give a _damn_ about that?" Peter hissed. "If there is any change in Neal's condition or any _incidents_," he emphasized the word with delicate disgust, "I am to be notified immediately. Not—not hours after the fact. I thought I had made that plain."

"Yes, I'm clarifying that on the chart." Her voice, crisp and efficient, softened suddenly. "Agent Burke, I am very sorry about this. I spoke to the nurse in question."

Peter waited.

"She admitted that she turned the light off in his room—"

"For God's sake!" Peter exploded. "Neal is—the lights are supposed to stay on his room." _How the hell had this happened again?_ In the midst of his anger, his worry, he was cognizant of how very much Neal would hate this conversation if he were hearing it—that acerbic comment about sleeping with the lights on echoed in Peter's mind. But of course Neal wasn't hearing this, because he had been drugged into unconsciousness by the very people who were supposed to be caring for him, damnit.

"I am aware of that, but—"

"What kind of a place are you running? You have people caring for patients who have no idea what they're doing, what they're dealing with?" Peter could hear his voice rising, unable to keep his temper in check. It felt good, somehow, to yell, even though he knew full well that none of it was this Maureen's fault. His mind was filled with images of Neal, panicked and confused, no doubt thinking he was back _there, _and trying to fight what he thought were his captors, out of his mind with fear. He closed his eyes momentarily against the thought. "Do you have any idea why he—why he can't be in the dark? What he's been through?"

"I know that he was abducted, yes, and that he has had a . . . an adverse reaction to being in the dark."

"He was held in an underground pit, in the dark, for two months." Peter bit off each word. "He was going through hellfor all of that time. What he needs now is to feel safe and secure. Instead this—whoever this was, sent him into a panic and made him think he was back there. _Jesus._" He ran a hand through his hair, fighting the urge to slam it into the kitchen counter instead.

"I know, Agent Burke. And I'm very sorry. This shouldn't have happened."

Peter took a deep breath. "You're damn right it shouldn't have. And yet it did. How is that you know about his situation, and you're not even his nurse? Why didn't the people last night know it?"

"I spoke with the staff who were on duty. There was an emergency and the unit was severely short-staffed. Nurse Callahan was called in from another floor to help. She familiarized herself with the medical details of Mr. Caffrey's condition, but she did not see the note about the lights, nor was she made aware of it by other staff."

"That is not acceptable."

"No, it isn't." She let out a long breath. "It's an explanation, not an excuse. All staff need to be fully aware of their patients' needs. And, again, I want to apologize."

"You can save the apologies for Neal." All Peter could think about was what it must have been like for him, in the dark, surrounded by strangers trying to grab him, hold him down . . . Peter felt sick.

"We will apologize to Mr. Caffrey—"

"Fine. For all the good it'll do. What I want to know," Peter said, speaking over her, knowing he was being rude and not caring, "is that this will never, ever happen again. You're putting Neal at risk, not to mention your own people."

"It won't happen again. I will make sure of it, Agent Burke. I have spoken personally with each one of the staff and the supervisor for the next shift has already been notified and will do the same. No one touches him without permission, and the lights stay on."

Peter supposed it was the best he was going to get, for now. She at least sounded convincing. He took another couple of deep breaths, swallowing back the rage. "How is he?"

"He's sleeping now. He woke up once since the incident and we explained what had happened. Mr. Caffrey had some memory of it, but was, understandably, confused."

A part of Peter still wanted to tell this woman that they'd screwed up very badly and that by rights, Neal should sue the hell out of them. Instead he said, heavily, "Is she okay?"

"Excuse me?"

"The nurse," Peter said, suddenly feeling very weary as his fury subsided. "You said he—that he hit her. Is she all right?"

Smolinski sighed. "Nurse Callahan has some bruises on her face and arms, and also a mildly sprained wrist, but she's okay. She said she was checking Mr. Caffrey's vitals, she turned the light off, and then she realized his head was turned at an odd angle. She was concerned that he'd have a sore neck, so she was trying to adjust the way he was lying, when he woke up and begin fighting her."

"She was trying to help him."

"Yes," Smolinski said. "She couldn't get him to understand that, though. She had to call for help and eventually they gave Mr. Caffrey something to calm him down—and to bring the fever down, as well. That was surely a factor in his . . . confusion. Anyway, she was pretty shaken up, and we sent her to the ER to get checked out, just in case, but she will be fine."

Peter allowed himself a small sigh of relief; that was one bit of good news, albeit small, in this mess. Neal would be horrified if he'd hurt anyone seriously; he had enough problems right now without having to deal with guilt over accidentally injuring someone.

"Also, a psych consult had already been ordered for Mr. Caffrey," she said. "Someone will be by this afternoon to talk with him."

Peter nodded, then realized she couldn't see that. "His doctor said that would be happening."

"Again, Agent Burke, I am very sorry. I'll be here all day if you want to speak in person."

"I'm on my way to see Neal now, but I don't think that will be necessary."

"I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you," she said and Peter ended the conversation.

He sat down at one of the kitchen stools, scrubbing at his face tiredly, and pushed his coffee cup away. With his stomach churning, Peter had no desire to drink any more of it. He slid his elbows onto the counter and rested his forehead on his hand, just for a moment. There was no one to see how defeated he looked, how worried he was. He didn't have to hide it.

In his anxiety about what the day would bring, Peter had forgotten that, for Neal, the night held its own special brand of menace as well. Once more, images raced through his head of what Neal must have been thinking and feeling in that hospital room, convinced he was back in that dungeon. He didn't yet know many details of Neal's captivity, but his imagination provided some possibilities—ones Peter would just as soon not think about.

But Peter had never been the type to wallow. So he let himself brood about the whole situation for maybe a minute before forcing himself up. He carried his mug over to the sink, rinsed it out, and went to pick up his briefcase. He needed to call Tonya, but more importantly, he needed to see Neal.

_TBC . . . ._

_A/N – Thanks for sticking with the story and a huge thanks to all who've reviewed. I apologize for not responding to comments lately—I will get back on that—and am also very sorry for the delay. Hopefully the next chapter will make up for it, as we switch gears to learn about Mozzie's long-lost sister. Bet you're excited!_

_Nah, j/k., couldn't resist the snark. And if you really do want to read about Mozzie's long-lost sis . . . well, sorry to get your hopes up. There's probably a fic out there somewhere. This is not that story, though._

_Comments always appreciated—thank you for reading!_


End file.
